“They have already found him, and he is dead.”
“Dead! Are you sure, my father?”
“I saw him dragged out and struck down with a tomahawk.”
“Were they Crows who killed him, or Arapahoes?”
“They were Crows.”
The girl was a picture of despair. She sat still, as if she had been turned into stone, gazing into vacancy. Then her cheeks flushed, and a wild and fierce light blazed in her dark eyes. The fires of hatred and vengeance had been kindled in her breast.
“I must see him, my father,” she said, quietly. “Perhaps he is only wounded.”
“Do you think the Crows would leave him alive? I tell you he is dead.”
“I must see him.”