VI
THE GREAT SECRET
It was the day they buried White Antelope that Smith approached Yellow Bird, a Piegan, who was among the Indians paying visits of indefinite length to the MacDonald ranch. “Eddie” Yellow Bird, he was called at the Blackfoot mission where he had learned to read and write—though he would never have been suspected of these accomplishments, since to all appearances he was a “blanket Indian.”
Smith spoke the Piegan tongue almost as fluently as his own, so he and Yellow Bird quickly became compadres, relating to each other stories of their prowess, of horses they had run off, of cattle they had stolen, and hinting, Indian fashion, with significant intonations and pauses, at crimes of greater magnitude.
“How is your heart to-day, friend? Is it strong?”
“Weak,” replied Yellow Bird jestingly, touching his breast with a fluttering hand.
“It would be stronger if you had red meat in your stomach,” Smith suggested significantly.
“The bacon is not for Indians,” agreed Yellow Bird.
“But the woman would have no cattle left if she killed only her own beef.”