Thus chase Bill’s cogitations when the sudden sight of the Saucy Paoli and her glances, full of wist and warmth, fasten his gallant fancy and crystalize a resolution to act at once.
“How!” observes Bill, by way of salutation, as he stands before Gray Wolf.
That warrior grunts swinish, though polite, response. Then Bill goes directly to the core of his employ; he explains his passion, sets forth his hopes, and by dashing swoops arrives at the point which, according to Bill’s blunt theories, should quicken the interest of Gray Wolf, and says:
“Now, what price? How many ponies?”
“How many you give?” retorts the cautious Gray Wolf.
“Fifteen.” Bill stands ready to go to thirty.
“Ugh!” observes Gray Wolf, and then he looks out across the prairie grasses where the thick smoke shows the summer fires to be burning them far away.
“Thirty ponies,” says Bill after a pause.
These or their money equivalent—six hundred dollars—Bill knows to be a fat figure. He believes Gray Wolf will yield.
But Bill is in partial error. Gray Wolf is not in any sordid, money frame. Your savage is a sentimentalist solely on two matters: those to touch his pride and those to wake his patriotism. And because of the recent triumph of the Poncas, and the consequent censures upon him now flaming, though hidden, in the common Osage heart, Gray Wolf’s pride is raw and throbbing. He looks up at Bill where he waits.