“Ha! Then you shall go to Priest’s Rapids with me. You shall see the wonders of my subterranean temple there; you shall see the chiefs of the Cayuses, Umatillas and Yakimas subservient to my will, and ready at my bidding to make this valley swarm with a red host of painted braves. You shall behold the power of Smoholler, and return to these pale-faced leaders to tell them that at my will I can raise a red war-cloud such as this land has never witnessed, and which will annihilate them when it bursts.”
“I say, Percy, old Smo’ is a little on the blow,” whispered Percy Cute.
The quick ear of the Prophet appeared to catch these words, and he shook his head disdainfully.
“The Tow-head is incredulous,” he cried, in the sententious Indian manner; at one moment speaking like a white man and the next with the imagery of the Indian.
Percy Cute opened his mouth in wonder.
“How did he know that I was ever called ‘Tow-head?’” he cried.
“Its color is enough to lead him to that conclusion,” answered Percy Vere, laughingly.
“If I get out of this scrape, I’ll have Ike dye my hair. If I escape a die here, I’ll dye in camp,” cried Cute.
It was impossible to detect through the paint upon Smoholler’s face any indication of what was passing in his mind, for it was like a hideous mask, but Percy Vere thought he was amused by his cousin’s drollery.
“Do you also doubt my power?” the Prophet demanded of Percy Vere. “Would it surprise you if I could tell you your name, and the purpose that brings you into this wilderness?”