“I mean to make her my wife.”
Astonishment is no word for the emotion that showed itself in Colonel Wilder’s countenance, in his whole frame. He was stupefied; he was thunderstruck. He fairly staggered under the blow and turned pale and red by turns.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he exclaimed. “Do you mean what you say—or have you become so entirely an Indian, that you have no regard for the truth?”
“I never lie, sir,” coolly replied Fred. The murder was out, now, and he had nerved himself to hear the worst.
“Do you suppose that I will consent to such a thing? Can you suppose, for a moment, that I will consent to become the grandfather of a tribe of half-breeds?”
Fred’s eyes twinkled; but he said nothing.
“And you, a Wilder!—my son! How can you think of so disgracing yourself?”
“You have often told me, sir, that you wished me to marry and settle down.”
“Did I ever wish you to marry a squaw, and to settle in a wigwam? Let me hear nothing more of this nonsense. You will remain with me, until we meet the Arapahoes.”
“I can not do it, sir. They will kill Dove-eye.”