“What brings the chief to Fort Bent, so far away from his home?” asked Dave.
“Ah-ke-no is a chief of the Sioux; he fought the Mandan braves on the Powder river. In the dark he lost his brothers, he traveled north to the wigwams of blue-coated braves. He is at peace with his white brothers; he is hungry and would eat; he is thirsty and would drink. Ah-ke-no is a great chief of the Yanctons!”
The savage uttered his story with a stolid face, while the quick flashing of his eyes changed into a dull gleam.
“Did my brother come on foot?” asked Dave.
“The chief is not a mud-turtle,” answered the savage; “he does not crawl when he can fly like the eagle. My white brother will look,” and the chief pointed to a small, open space between the fort and the river, where a white horse, strangely marked with small patches of black in the flanks, and of matchless beauty, tethered to a stake, lay upon the ground.
The guide gazed upon the steed with unbounded admiration. He had seen many a horse of wondrous beauty, but never one to compare with that milk-white steed of the chief.
“My brother’s horse is handsome,” said Dave.
“The chief is a great brave among his warriors; he rides on the wind. The mustang never lived that could overtake the “White Vulture”!”
“Your horse?” questioned Dave, wondering at the name.