When the great meeting was over, Hector said goodbye to Sleeping Thunder.
"You go from us, my son," the old man exclaimed, extending his hand, "knowing far more of my people than when you came. The Indian's ways and the white man's ways are not the same and it is not good that one should take to himself the habits of the other. The Great Spirit made us different and so we should remain. For one, vast cities, such as you have pictured to me—buildings of stone—sheltered lives; for the other, open plains—teepees—and roving lives that are wild and free. But it is good that we should know one another, since, though you are white and we are red, we are not less brothers. For this, at least, you will not regret your visit, O my son, and I will always hold you as a friend—in time of need, especially, a friend. And now you ride back to your people and no-one knows when we will meet again. But we shall meet again, be sure of that!"
Hector smiled.
"I hope so, Sleeping Thunder," he said; then added regretfully, "Tell Moon I am troubled that she was not here to say goodbye. Tell her I do not understand."
Pain momentarily darkened the chief's face. Then he also smiled.
"Who shall read the mind of a woman?" he questioned. "Go your way. I will tell her."
Again they shook hands. Hector wheeled his horses and rode away.
An Indian watched his going from a clump of bushes on the outskirts of the camp, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
From the shadows, night after night, he had sullenly watched the stranger talking with the chief outside the teepee, watched him sitting with the father of Moon.
Loud Gun was glad to see the last of the white man.