“But I saw you hurled from the precipice,” gasped the girl, gazing upon the Indian with her strained eyes.
“The great Manitou that gives to the eagle wings can keep his children from harm. The hounds of death were howling for his blood in the rocky caves below; he was swinging on a branch as slender almost as the hair which falls from that head. A white man—one of her own tribe in skin, but not in heart—raised his fire-weapon, and the bullet hissed as it passed through his hair.” The Indian removed his otter-cap, and pointed to a hole in it.
“Good heaven! can this be true? A white man shot at you when you were swinging over that fearful abyss!”
“There are black hearts among Indians and white men alike. It was the sachem of the Lake of Salt.”
“The Mormon! Thank mercy it was none of my people.”
“The trail has been long, the night cold, and the girl of snowy skin trembles like a dove when the hawk is swooping down to wet his beak in her blood.”
“Yes; I am very, very cold.”
“By that tree, scarred and splintered by the forked lightning, there is a cave. Let her go and rest within it. Osse ’o will build a fire to warm her limbs, and bring her food. She must rest. He will watch her while she sleeps.”
“But you are—”
“A Dacotah!”