“The Dacotahs are masters of the prairie! When the moccasin of his enemies leave their print upon the trail, the warriors gather thick around like the buzzards. He has robbed the red-man of his lands and hunting-grounds—has driven the deer and buffalo away before the thunder of his fire-weapon. They starve for food—he has plenty. They long for the swift-footed horses—he has them by hundreds. Their little ones cry for milk—his wigwams are filled with it.”
“Then you would basely steal his daughter and afterward plunder him.”
“Let the girl of the snowy skin listen. The words of the warrior are few. Not his the tongue to prattle like the little pappoose, or tell of his deeds like the squaw of an hundred winters. The Eagle of the Dacotahs saw the young dove of the valley. He swept from his mountain home on his broad wings and there was mourning and blackened faces in the parent nest.”
“But why have you done this, if gold was not your object?”
“When a soft glance of the fiery-eyed sun steals into the wigwam of the pale-faces, does he shut it out? When the smile of morning cleaves its way through the shadows of night, does he hang thick blankets in his way? The red-man is not a fool. He has eyes and he can see.”
“Why speak in riddles? Tell me plainly of your meaning, if you would have me answer.”
“The daughter of the chief of the long rifles came to the wigwams of the Black Eagle. He looked upon her and his heart grew sick of the brown faces of his tribe. When he returns from the long trail, with aching feet and tired limbs, the white-faced maiden shall make his wigwam bright.”
“Still I can not comprehend. Your words are a mystery and your actions shrouded,” answered Esther, turning deathly pale.
“Black Eagle would have a pale-face squaw to dress his venison and fringe his leggins with the scalp-locks.”
“What! Your wife? Merciful heavens, you can not mean that!”