“Yes.”
“Do you know I have a suspicion concerning you?”
“Indeed! What is it?”
“I think that you are a white man.”
The Prophet laughed.
“Do I look like one?” he returned.
“It is impossible to say what you look like with those hideous daubs of paint upon your face; but you talk like one—and, besides, you are too smart for an Indian.”
“Them’s my sentiments!” cried Cute. “Smoholler, you beat all the chiefs I ever heard of all hollow.”
“Smoholler is the great Prophet of the Snakes,” exclaimed Oneotah, fervidly. “Wherever his name is known it is feared and dreaded. His followers are many—his enemies perish, like the withered grass beneath the fire, when his wrath pursues them.”
“The boy is one of your converts, I perceive,” said Percy, with a smile. “He believes in you.”