The two Indians conducted Dave from the lodge, through the village, to the hut of “Thunder-Cloud.” Just at the entrance, the party was met by the “White Vulture,” who looked at the warriors in astonishment.
“Who has dared to take the pale-face from the lodge where the ‘White Vulture’ placed him?” questioned the chief, angrily.
“The ‘Thunder-Cloud’ would talk with the ‘Crow-Killer’ alone,” responded one of the Indians; “he has a secret to tell the pale-face that will make the great chief howl like a dog.”
“It is well; the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ is a great chief; let my brothers go on,” replied the “White Vulture” as he walked away. The Indians placed Dave in the lodge and left him to solitude and the bitterness of his own reflections.
The “White Vulture” walked slowly through the village, paused at the hut wherein was confined the “Crow-Killer”—listened for a moment at the door, and then as if hearing something to excite his curiosity, he noiselessly stole round to the back of the lodge, extended himself upon the ground and listened to the conversation going on within.
After the Indians had departed with Dave, the “Thunder-Cloud” gazed with a look of curiosity upon the massive form of the great enemy of his nation—the famous “Crow-Killer”—as he lay extended on the bed of bear-skins.
The hunter’s face was stoically indifferent as he gazed upon the old chief.
After a long silence, the old chief stirred up the little fire burning within the lodge, which threw a glimmering, uncertain light around.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great chief,” said the old warrior, breaking the silence.
“What does the ‘Thunder-Cloud’ want with the ‘Crow-Killer’?” asked the guide, speaking in the Crow tongue.