He concealed his horse, and went to the spot where he had left Silverspur the night before. It was easy to track the fugitive by the footprints of his horse, and White Shield followed them through the forest and over a piece of level ground beyond, until they abruptly terminated at the edge of a precipice.
The Blackfoot looked over the precipice, and saw that it was a fearful leap to the bottom. It was not to be supposed that a man could take such a leap and live. He was forced to the conclusion that Silverspur had taken this leap in the dark, and had been killed.
By a circuitous route White Shield reached the ravine at the foot of the bluff, and there saw abundant evidence of the truth of his surmise. There were spots of blood upon the stones, and an indentation of the turf showed that a heavy body had fallen upon it. There were many footprints in the vicinity, and a trail led up one of the hills that surrounded the ravine. The Arapahoes had carried away the body, no doubt, and their silence the previous night was occasioned by the fact that they had not then descended into the ravine to search for their victim.
White Shield did not follow the trail that led up the hill, as he supposed that it only went around to the village. It was possible that his friend might still be living, though terribly mangled. If he was dead, it would be some satisfaction to recover his scalp from his enemies. To this purpose White Shield now devoted himself.
After dark he went to the Arapaho village, and prowled about their lodges, confident that there would be some sort of a celebration over their victory, if the death of Silverspur could be so regarded. He was not mistaken. Bonfires were blazing, and preparations were being made for a grand jubilee, which soon commenced.
Near the largest bonfire was a pole, from which a single scalp was hanging. Around this men and women, mingled together, danced and sung, and every now and then, at the tap of a drum, one of the warriors would step forward and recount his exploits.
White Shield did not long witness this scene from concealment. He felt sure that Silverspur was dead, and that the Arapahoes were rejoicing over his scalp. This awakened in him a desire to snatch the trophy from their possession, and to take vengeance upon them for the death of his friend. He was just in the mood for such an achievement. He had deserted his tribe, Silverspur was gone, and there would be no one to mourn for him if he should fall. In fact, he was desperate, ready at any moment to sing his death-song and pass to the spirit-land.
He threw his blanket over his head, and mingled with the Indians of the village. He was not foolhardy enough to join the dance; but he forced his way into the circle, and walked up to the pole from which the scalp was hanging.
To his great surprise he perceived that the scalp was dry, as if it had long hung in the smoke of a lodge. The hair, moreover, was thin and gray, almost white. White Shield had never heard any of those tales of civilized men whose hair has suddenly turned gray from the effect of terrible fright or severe suffering. If he had read them, he would not for a moment have believed that any thing could change the long and waving masses of Silverspur’s brown hair to those thin gray threads.
It was not Silverspur’s scalp. His friend was living; or, if he was dead, the Arapahoes had not been able to outrage his remains. White Shield was no longer desperate. He had an object to live for, and his caution returned to him. His entrance into the circle, his examination of the gray scalp, and the train of thought which followed from that examination, had occupied only a few moments of time; but he felt that he was in a dangerous position, from which he would find it difficult to extricate himself.