"My brother is mistaken," said Deerfoot; "he is like the rattlesnake; he gives warning before he strikes; I heard him growl, and he stopped at the entrance to the cavern, afraid of the fire."
"Why didn't you shoot him?"
"Would he have died more quietly, or with less pain than from the knife? It is the knife that the Winnebago left; Deerfoot wanted to learn whether it would serve him well."
"And I should think ye ought to be satisfied, as a cousin of me own once remarked after working five years for a man without any pay excipt starvation and kicks."
"The knife proved itself a good one," said Fred; "but the poorest knife would be just as effective in your hands."
Deerfoot withdrew his own weapon from its skin sheath, and handed it to Fred.
"Let my brother carry that, for the hour may come sooner than he thinks when it will be of use to him."
Fred accepted it gratefully, saying, as he managed to find place for it somewhat after the manner of Deerfoot:
"If I can handle it with half of your skill, it will serve me well indeed, but that can never be."
Deerfoot placed the larger weapon within the sheath from which he had withdrawn his own and made no reply to the compliments of his friends. He had heard many such before, but he placed no value upon them. He regarded himself as simply trying to use in the best way the gifts of the Great Spirit. His many escapes from death and injury were due solely to God's protecting care, and he could never take to himself any credit for what he did.