“I know I am. Did you not notice how she squealed when I squeezed her hand—and didn’t you think her hand was as soft as a girl’s?”
“I wish I could have seen her face!” said Percy Vere, thoughtfully.
“That beastly antelope’s head hides her face, and is worn on purpose to do so.”
“And yet, I fancy, it is a handsome one—it should be to correspond with her shapely and flexible limbs; but I can’t imagine why she should wish to hide it.”
“That’s Smoholler’s doings—look at the way he had his face daubed; who could make any thing of his features through all that paint? I tell you what, I don’t think the Indians know what she is—the Prophet makes them believe she is a boy, I bet.”
“Why should he make her assume such a disguise?”
“Because he’s an old humbug! He’s up to some trickery to bamboozling these Indians, all the time; that’s the way he has made himself a great man out this way. If he had been a white man, he would have been a politician; but as he’s red, he turns Prophet—with an eye to profit, don’t you see?”
“He certainly has gained a great ascendancy over the Indians.”
“Of course he has—there’s red fools as well as white ones. He’s as smart as a steel trap—you can see that with half an eye. And she’s smart.”
“Oneotah?”