“His wife?” echoed Percy Vere, surprisedly. “No, I do not think there is any such relationship existing between them. The tie that binds her to him appears to be one of gratitude. As I understand it, he appears to have saved her from a ferocious chief of the Yakimas named Howlish Wampo. I remembered the name because it is such an odd one.”
“And I have good cause to remember it too,” said Glyndon, “for he is the head chief of the murdering tribe that destroyed my home. I heard his name at the time—he was a young chief then, about the age of Multuomah here. It grows upon me—I’ve got the idea into my head, and it sticks there, that Oneotah is my daughter.”
This was a revelation that greatly surprised all, and it made Percy Vere thoughtful.
“She spoke uncommonly good English for an Indian, I thought,” he said; “but so did the Prophet, for that matter.”
“Tip-top!” affirmed Cute.
“I think the Prophet would give up this girl, if he thought she was your daughter,” continued Percy Vere.
Glyndon shook his head dubiously.
“I have my doubts about that,” he answered. “These Injuns ain’t so fond of giving up any thing they have once got hold of. But I do think we can compel him to give her up.”
“You do?” cried Multuomah, eagerly.
“I just do! There’s one kind of logic that appeals irresistibly to an Injun, and only one—and that is force. No offence to you, Multuomah. There’s good and bad among Injuns, pretty much as there is among white men. Human nature is about the same, no matter what the color of the skin may be. I think we can get this Smoholler into a tight place, and make him squeal!”