“Multuomah!” exclaimed Oneotah, tremulously.
The Prophet turned sharply upon Cute.
“What do you know of Multuomah?” he demanded.
Behind the Prophet’s back Percy Vere held up his finger, warningly, to his cousin.
“Oh! I don’t know much about him,” replied Cute, leisurely—“I’ve seen him, that’s all. He’s a chief of the Nez Perces—and a splendid looking fellow. He don’t daub his face up as you do yours. You put me in mind of the clown in the circus.”
The Prophet was not to be put aside in his inquiry. His suspicion had been aroused, and he was determined to satisfy it.
“You have seen Multuomah lately?” he continued, fixing his keen eyes upon Cute’s face. “You found him in your camp on your return?”
“Did your spirits tell you that?” rejoined Cute, bewildered by Smoholler’s shrewd guess, and endeavoring to dodge the question.
The Prophet shrugged his shoulders.
“Your face tells me so,” he answered; “and I have no need to call upon my spirits to corroborate it.” He turned to Percy Vere. “Your party has been joined by the young chief of the Nez Perces, Multuomah?” he inquired.