White Shield was puzzled. The Arapahoes described the pursuit of Silverspur; but the scalp was not his. Who had the old medicine-man buried, and whose scalp had he given to the warriors? Surely it could not be Silverspur. White Shield said nothing more concerning the scalp, but determined to investigate the matter quietly.
As soon as it was dusk he left the village, and went to the place where he had concealed his horse. The animal was safe; but the keen eye of the Blackfoot quickly detected signs of some presence besides his own. Somebody had been there during his absence, and, unless his penetration was greatly at fault, somebody was still concealed in the vicinity.
White Shield applied himself to find out who this somebody was. While he affected to busy himself about his horse, his bright eyes searched the forest, and took note of every tree, twig, leaf and blade of grass within the range of his vision. In the course of this searching investigation he saw another pair of eyes, twinkling from behind a leafy hedge of bushes. He was sure that those eyes belonged to a white man, and the white man could not be Silverspur, who would have recognized him and spoken to him. Any other white man was his enemy, and this one had been lying in wait for him.
The Blackfoot left the horse, and walked toward the thicket in which he had seen the eyes glisten. He walked slowly, looking about him upon the ground, as if searching for something he had lost. He passed the thicket, and then, with the quickness of lightning, turned and threw himself upon his concealed foe.
A brief struggle followed, in which both of the combatants came crashing out of the bushes, and fell upon the ground. But the red-man had the advantage of surprise—of the first attack—and he kept it. In a few seconds his enemy was under his knee, and his right hand was raised, ready to strike with his glittering knife. The white man closed his eyes, and muttered one word:
“Flora!”
The Indian started. His knife was lowered harmlessly, and the grasp of his left hand was relaxed. “Flora!”—he had heard the name used by Silverspur, and perhaps this white man might be a friend of her whom Silverspur called Flora.
“Who are you?” he asked in plain English. “Who is Flora?”
A thought occurred to the white man. A hope dawned upon him, and his eyes brightened as they opened. This red-skin knew the name of Flora; he was a Blackfoot, as was evident from his paint and his garb; he was among the Arapahoes.