The affair was soon quieted, and the warriors returned in high glee. They had captured two prisoners, as White Shield informed his friend, and had taken a scalp. The mourning in the village, therefore, was at an end. All washed their faces, and prepared for a dance and a jollification.
As sleep was out of the question, in the midst of such an uproar, Wilder sallied out and joined the dancers. The scalp which was the occasion of the revelry, together with one which had been brought in by the war-party, was suspended upon a pole, and Wilder inspected them with the others. The hair of one of the scalps was short, black and curly. That of the other was short, thin and silver gray. It was evident to the young trapper that neither was the scalp of an Indian, and he called White Shield aside to speak to him concerning them.
“That black scalp yonder,” said he, “is not the scalp of an Indian.”
“No; it is the scalp of a white man.”
“They were white men, then, who came to steal horses?”
“Yes; and the two prisoners are white men.”
“Is the gray scalp the scalp of a white man, too?”
“Yes. We would have had a big dance over that scalp, if we had not lost two warriors in the fight. It is the scalp of the white-haired chief.”
“And who was he?”