CHAPTER IV. The Medicine
Guy Preston turned and looked in the same direction in which the Indian was gazing, but could not see anything to confirm his suspicions. The prairie, as far as he could see it, did not appear as though there was a person on it, but Guy knew better than that. He knew that there was a Sioux warrior within easy reach of him, perhaps at that very minute a rifle was aimed at him or his horse, and that nothing saved him but the presence of Winged Arrow. His face grew a shade paler and his hand trembled as he clutched his Derringer, but his determination was there all the same.
"If I go you will have to go first," said he to himself. "On that I am resolved."
"I see you are armed," said the Indian, turning quickly about and seeing Guy with his right hand behind him. "That shows that I have more faith in you than you have in me. Well, I don't know that I blame you. You fellows with your books and your speakers have somehow got hold of the idea that an Indian has no gratitude, but I have proved the contrary by coming out here to warn you."
"You are a queer sort of an Indian anyhow," said Guy, taking his hand from his hip pocket. "You ought to be a white man."
"I am white in some respects; but with all the lessons I learned at Carlisle, they did not make me forget that I was to the manner born. This country is mine, and those who think as I do will, when we lose it, see the last of Winged Arrow."
"Did you know that this massacre was coming before you came here?" said Guy, who wanted to learn as much as he could about the savages on the plains and in the school. "If you did, I don't see why your teachers did not warn the authorities."
For a reply Winged Arrow took hold of a little bag which he carried in front of him, lifted the cover and thrust his hand into it. Presently he brought out a folded paper, and after he was certain that he had what he wanted, he passed it over to Guy.
"That was the letter I received inviting me to come home," said he. "What do you make out of it?"