“White Shield is not afraid. His heart is clean, and his tongue is straight. The path is broad before him. Let my brother shoot.”
“Why have you betrayed me?”
“White Shield betrayed his own people, to please his brother. Is it for that reason that he is called a traitor? Let Silverspur shoot.”
Wilder could not contain himself any longer. The truth and affection of the Indian were so manifest, that he felt that he could not blame himself sufficiently for his suspicions. He leaped from his horse, threw his rifle upon the ground, ran to the Indian, and fairly hugged him.
“The heart of Silverspur was hot,” he said. “A little bird whispered to me, and told me lies. I have done wrong; but my brother will forgive me.”
“The heart of White Shield is warm. What did the little bird say to my brother?”
“Where is the white maiden?”
“With the Indians of the south—with the Arapahoes.”
“Why is she there?”
The Indian proceeded to relate his adventures since he had parted from his friend.