“Black Horse does not pretend to be good at counting,” superciliously replied the Arapaho. “A few warriors more or less are of no consequence. Why should the white chief care? If he does not wish to harm the Arapahoes, he need not ask to have as many warriors as they have, and he knows that they have no wish to harm his people.”
Colonel Wilder let the subject drop, not deeming it of sufficient importance to allow it to disturb the “talk,” and negotiations for peace were opened. But there was a difficulty at the outset.
In the group of Crows and white men were Old Blaze and Silverspur, and among the Arapahoes was the trader, Silas Wormley. Old Blaze was recognized by Black Horse, who had seen him when a prisoner in the Arapaho village, as well as on previous occasions. He had no doubt that the companion of the hunter was Silverspur, whom he knew by reputation. Silas Wormley, since his arrival, had been sharp-sighted enough to catch a glimpse of Dove-eye and Jose, whose presence he had duly reported to the chief. Assured that the fugitives were within his reach, Black Horse devoted his first efforts to gaining possession of them. Without going into particulars, he stated that they had stolen into the Arapaho country, where they had done a great deal of damage, and that he was in pursuit of them. He proposed, before proceeding to talk of peace, that these offenders should be delivered up to the Arapahoes, to be dealt with as they should see fit.
“Is this one of the men?” asked Colonel Wilder, pointing to Silverspur.
The chief nodded assent.
“He is my son.”
“Are not all the white people children of the white chief?” sarcastically inquired Black Horse.
“His mother was my wife. You can not expect me to give up my son to be killed, when he has committed no crime deserving of death.”
“Give us the other man, then—give us the Burnt Face,” said Black Horse, who was willing to temporize, in order to gain time to carry out a little stratagem that he had planned.
“What has he done?”