“I’ll just bet my bottom dollar on it! She’s the Prophet’s White Spirit, sure as a gun.”
“I have only one objection to urge to that,” replied Percy Vere. “The face of the Angel was white—you observed that?”
This remark bothered Cute a little.
“Y-e-s,” he admitted.
“And Oneotah is undoubtedly an Indian—whether boy or girl—and his, or her, face must necessarily be red.”
“Ah, yes—but couldn’t the Prophet whitewash it for the occasion?” cried Cute, triumphantly. “How can we tell but what the Prophet may have found a lot of Lily-white or Pearl Powder in some emigrant train that his braves have plundered?”
“Pshaw! that’s too ridiculous an idea.”
“You may think so, but I don’t. I tell you, this Prophet is a sly old ’coon, and up to all sorts of dodges. And then, how do we know that Oneotah is an Indian girl?” he continued, suddenly inspired with a new idea. “She may be a white girl—stolen away from her home when she was a wee bit of a shaver—I have heard of such things, haven’t you?”
“Certainly; the histories of the Indian tribes recount many such instances. I should like to see her face, for what you have said has made me very curious about it.”
“You shall see it!”