“My father speaks straight,” he said, at length, breaking the silence. “His tongue is not forked. Is the wolf Demon an Indian devil?”
“No, white.”
“White!” and the chief started.
“Yes, as white as the Ohio waves when the Great Spirit lashes them with his storm-whip, and they bind white plumes around their scalp-locks.”
The chief pondered with moody brows. The old Indian from the covert of his blankets watched him with searching eyes.
“Then the Great Medicine can show me the Wolf Demon?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Does the chief see that green stick?” and the old Indian pointed to the fire.
“Yes.”