“Gold!” interrupted Black Eagle.
With reluctance, the Mormon doled out half the required sum. It was hard to part with it, but harder still to give up the vision he had indulged in so long.
“Is the tongue of the pale-face crooked? Are his eyes dim that he can not see? Have his fingers forgotten how to count?” asked the Indian, somewhat savagely.
“No, no, it is all right. When—”
A shrill whistle rung through the valley, and Black Eagle cut the explanation short.
“My brothers call. The Black Eagle will lead his warriors out of the little valley into the broad road. Then let the pale-face come and get the young squaw for his wigwam.”
“Come and get her?”
“Did he not so tell the red sachem?”
“True, I had forgotten. Mind your men don’t fire. I have told my men not to shoot. Let there be a sort of a sham fight, and as soon as I have got the girl, you can come quietly to me, and I will pay you even more than I promised.”
Without another audible word the Indian departed, but his thoughts were the embodiment of treachery. The white man had gold—should it not be his? The girl was fair—should she not fill his wigwam far away by the margin of Spirit Lake? The companions of the Mormon should only play with their weapons—should his be so careful? They were the enemies of his race—should not their scalps hang in the wigwams of the Dacotahs? Ah! it was a great temptation for a savage warrior, and little faith could be put in his promises when red gold, and rich plunder, and a snowy bride, were luring him to the accomplishment of the very things his nature panted after.