Pawnee Killer halted, glanced aside.
“How?” he said.
“You know me, Pawnee Killer?”
“No;” and Pawnee Killer would pass on.
“Wait. Where’s my sister?”
Pawnee Killer impatiently shook his head. Not a muscle of his dark face changed. How Ned hated him, at that moment: hated him, for the wrongs received—for memory of slain father and mother, and hard camp life of himself and his sister. He scarcely could keep his fingers off his revolver, could young Ned, standing there returning glare for glare.
“Heap fool. White boy heap fool,” grunted Pawnee Killer, contemptuously, and drawing closer about him his blanket, he stalked on. Ned sprang a step after him; then stopped short. He must not be hasty. He must wait. General Custer had promised him, and he, Ned, was only one victim among many. Yes, he would wait, and depend upon the general.
Before taps it was understood throughout the camp (for gossip traveled fast, especially when California Joe was about to carry news among the fires) that Pawnee Killer and White Horse were to spend the night as guests of General Hancock; and that in the morning all the chiefs of the village should assemble in the camp for the council. Therefore early in the morning—but not until after he had heartily breakfasted—Pawnee Killer rode out, to bring, he said, the other chiefs.
The camp waited.