“Why did you wish to see me?” he asked.
“Because I thought you might give me some intelligence of my father,” answered Percy.
“Why should you think so?”
“Because you are a man of great intelligence. I heard so before I saw you, and I am satisfied of it now.”
The Prophet inclined his head as if pleased with the compliment.
“You possess a wonderful power over the Indians, I can see—and I think few parties of hunters could cross the river, which you watch so jealously, unknown to you.”
“You are right; my spies are everywhere, my commands implicitly obeyed. Along the course of yonder mighty river, from its rocky source to where it empties into the ocean, there is no chief who is respected and feared like Smoholler. Already my warriors outnumber the fighting men of the other tribes, and daily I am gaining accessions to my ranks. They come to listen to the recital of my dreams, and they remain, satisfied that the power I profess is not an idle boast. You shall pay me a visit to Priest’s Rapids, if you like, and I will show you the germ of a growing nation. Ah! the day will come, and it is not far distant, when the tribes of the Pacific Slope will be gathered into one grand confederacy which will acknowledge Smoholler as its chief.”
The Prophet’s breast heaved and his eyes dilated with a fervid enthusiasm, as he pronounced these words.
“An Indian emperor!” exclaimed Cute. “Bully for you!”
“And why not? The descendants of the Aztecs and Toltecs still roam these plains and mountains. Why should not I revive the glories of Montezuma’s empire?”