Fortune favored him. He came across an outlying spy—trailed his rifle, and turning the open palms of his hands toward him, advanced. It was a sort of freemason sign, well known to all the dwellers of the prairies, and it was not long before he and the Indian reached the main body of the savages, and he was soon seated in council with them.
But the Indians, crafty as treacherous, inquired deeply into the motives that made a man thus turn against his own people, and give them to the tomahawk and scalping-knife, or to torture.
"There is a girl among them whom I would make my wife," was the answer.
"Then why does the pale-face not take her?" questioned the chief.
"Because they are too many, and she will have nothing to do with me—loves somebody else."
"Why, then, is not the scalp of the lover at the belt of the brave?"
"That's just what I want, but I have never had a fair chance. Then, too, there is the guide of the party who has more than once insulted me—a trapper who has been here before—knows every foot of the ground, and I presume you know him."
"What sort of a man is the scout?"
Parsons described him minutely, and the Indians looked quickly from one to the other, and though there was no intimation given in words, yet it was evident that they both knew and feared him.
"How many of the pale-faces?"