"I did not know it was you, good friend Brinton."
"And suppose you did not; are you the sort of warrior that shoots another in the back?"
The broad face, with its high cheek bones, coppery skin, low forehead and Roman nose, changed from the pleasant smile which gave a glimpse of the even white teeth, to a scowl, that told the ugly feelings that had been stirred by the questioning remark of the white youth.
"Your people have become my enemies: they have killed Sitting Bull, Black Bird, Catch-the-Bear, Little Assiniboine, Spotted Horse Bull, Brave Thunder, and my friend, Crow Foot, who was the favourite son of Sitting Bull. He was as a brother to me."
"And your people have killed Bull Head, Shave Head, Little Eagle, Afraid-of-Soldiers, Hawk Man, and others of their own race, who were wise enough to remain friends of our people. I know of that fight when they set out to arrest Sitting Bull."
"They had no right to arrest him," said Wolf Ear, with a flash of his black eyes; "he was in his own tepee (or tent), and harming no one."
"He was doing more harm to his own people as well as ours, than all the other malcontents together. He was the plotter of mischief; he encouraged this nonsense about the ghost dances and the coming Messiah, and was doing all he could to bring about a great war between my people and yours. His death is the best fortune that could come to the Indians."
"It was murder," said Wolf Ear sullenly, and then, before the other could frame a reply, his swarthy face lightened up.
"But you and I, Brinton, are friends; I shot at you because I thought you were someone else; it would have grieved my heart had I done you harm; I am glad I did not; I offer you my hand."
Young Kingsland could not refuse the proffer, though he was far from feeling comfortable, despite his narrow escape a moment before.