"But the white trapper is alone—" began Bill.
"He may be alone at this hour, but my spies speak of the lone trappers converging to join him. Does not the Cherokee know—his moccasins have crossed the traces of theirs?"
"I know what I know. The Old Man has no secrets from his brother. The trappers are massing, that's a fact."
"To what end? Will he guide the gold seekers into the Enchanted Valley, where the holy fire rages, which my father has drank."
"No. Jim Ridge loves the Yellowstone—he does not want a whole caboodle of scourings to be poured into its lovely glades and peaceful parts, where the fawns come up and lick your hands."
"Ah! Does the old Yager wish the help of the Piegans to keep off the whites? Is his Cherokee mate sent to ask that help?" came from the Red Knife, in a coaxing voice.
"Lor', no," responded Bill, coldly. "On the other hand, the old man never refused help to an Indian who played him fair. Many a poor wretch, frozen out, has been succoured by him—more than fed, mark you; clothed in fine fur, and given a gun and powder and ball, with the promise only understood that he should not use them on any of Jim's colour. But never has he craved any return for what he has done. That's his style, chief. What the Raven says is dictated by the friendly spirit in his very bones, with which his mother tempered them. He has no mission from anyone. But still, if to drive away these gold thirsty dogs, ay, and to crush them, the Piegans want the trapper's help, who entertains no kindly feelings for the disgraces to their race, then find out whether he will give it. It is a sachem that you have heard. Ponder over his words."
Bill rose and retired to a tent made ready for him. He was left alone to recruit till about sunrise, when the chiefs flocked round his tent door with all the ceremony laid down by Indian etiquette. The medicine man hallowed the tent, so that they could hold a council smoke, and this was Red Knife's proposal:
"After considering the words of the Cherokee chief, the headmen of the Piegans have come to this conclusion: Quorinnah is a wise man; he knows that only boys and squaws, having no keenness or experience like trained men, who have made their mark, set about things unthinkingly, and with no conception of their extent. The Piegans do not ask in this fashion, being men of war. The chief, subchief, captains, and big braves of the nation have resolved to say this: The Cherokee chief loves his brothers, the Blackfeet. His heart is red, and prompts him to speak good counsel, and that counsel has been debated on. It is true the Old Man of the Mountain has punished trap robbers and ravagers of the cachés, and that he has given shot for shot when fired on. But if he has shed blood, he, too, has had his blood spilt. Let the rock moss and the desert sands drink the blood up of both foe and friend of ours, and say no more about it. On the other hand, the Yager has helped many a naked, starved, gunless Indian about the Yellowstone, and on the highland slope. He has defended the Enchanted Valley, and never has he offered men to guide his white brethren within its bounds of fire and steam and smoke. He is alone, yet he does not need help. But we do. Never in our memory, or on the painted books of the tribe history in the sacred lodge, have so many evil men been covering the wilderness. Lo! The buffalo and the bear are driven away by the reek of strange campfires, and the birds hurry from the uproar of carouses. The Raven of the Cherokees speaks true. He comes on no errand from the Great White Trapper. But the Piegans, proud to have the slayer of six-at-full-gallop-under-their-own-eyes as their guest, claim a service of him: the chiefs desire to see the Yager of the Yellowstone. Did they know where to meet him, they would go forth in their best clothes to greet him; but the Mountain Man is a great hunter—he disguises his trail neatly, and his fort is an undiscoverable refuge. But the Cherokee chief knows where his friend abides, and he will go to him, and say, 'Old Man of the Mountain, your sons the Piegans have a weight on the heart, a skin over their eyes—they beseech your help, with the wondrous gun that sends death so far and so true. Come to their aid against their enemies, who are yours; come quick; let your presence console and make joy displace the grief that eats up their heart.'"
Bill did not in the faintest believe in the more than temporary sincerity of the speaker, but he spoke so feelingly, that he joined in the murmur of applause which hailed the final words.