"But I do you," she hissed, rather than spoke.
"No, no. You are mistaken. I have never met you before."
"The pale thief has a bad memory or lies."
"I am certain I am right."
"Listen."
She briefly recounted what had transpired at their first meeting, and he trembled as a coward, as she proceeded:
"More than that, he has lied to the Little Raven, and this poor white squaw. But the dark-mouthed wolves of death are upon his trail."
"You are wrong," he stammered.
"Wrong? Does he know her?" and she dragged the unwilling Olive forward, and turning to her, said, as she held out her knife: "Take this and revenge yourself until your heart is satisfied. Cut away his skin, little by little, until his body looks as if spotted with the small-pox. Do any thing you wish so that you do not take his life. When death comes, it must be at the hands of the red-man."
"I can not—can not!" shrieked the white girl, as she turned away in horror, even at the thought.