The look of the Winnebago, who was half reclining on his side, supporting his body with the hand that grasped his gun, plainly indicated the question that came from his lips.
"Why does my brother look with evil eyes on the Wolf, who has come from the lodges of the Winnebagos? Are not all red men brothers?"
"Deerfoot is a Shawanoe, whose warriors have consorted with those of the Winnebagos; but Deerfoot has left his lodge beyond the Mississippi and lives alone in the woods. He will not hurt the brave Winnebago who fights men, but he slays the Wolf that bites the children of the pale faces, that have never harmed him."
Possibly the Wolf was inclined to argue the matter with the Shawanoe, who had caught him at such disadvantage; but the manner and words of Deerfoot showed that he was in no mood for discussion.
"What does my brother want?" asked the Winnebago, in a voice that proved all fight had left him. The most, indeed, that he ventured to do was gently to rub his forehead and nose, where the fists of the sturdy Terry Clark had landed.
"Let the Wolf rise to his feet, but when he does so, his gun must lie on the ground."
This was a harsh order, but there was no help for it; the Indian hesitated a moment, and then, black and scowling, he slowly assumed the upright posture, and, folding his arms across his chest, looked in the face of the bright-eyed Deerfoot, to signify that he was awaiting his next command.
"The Wolf shall now turn his face away from Deerfoot."
The Winnebago obeyed the order as promptly as if he were a soldier undergoing drill.
"Let my brother now raise his eyes, until he sees the beech with the white trunk," said Deerfoot, using the word "brother" for the first time.