“That scoundrel of a Fagan, I’ll bet a million!” burst out Tom.
Before the surprised scouts had much further chance to talk over this unexpected glimpse of the burly Sac chief and the white renegade, the party came to the edge of the Winnebago village. And a striking sight it was, in the soft rays of the setting sun! The matted lodges, with the blue smoke curling from their tops—the trees and shrubs a radiant green—the lake, at the very door, glinting and sparkling—the savages, in their wild, colorful raiment, all added up to make a picture that Tom and Ben Gordon never forgot.
As the horsemen came in among the lodges, a number of squaws and half-naked, coppery urchins ran out to greet them, shouting:
“Hee-nee-karray-kay-noo?” (how do you do?)
Several braves now made their appearance, and, after some brisk palaver on the part of Bright Star, showed the visitors to the habitation of the White Crow, the largest and finest lodge in the village, as befitted his rank of head Chieftain. The Colonel, Captain Hamilton, and the four scouts bent low and went into the shelter, while the six rangers remained outside, more or less as a guard; although they made a studied effort not to give the Winnebagoes the least idea that they were suspicious of them.
“Ho! ho!” the White Crow said, in his guttural voice.
“Ho, Kaukishkaka!” responded Dodge affably.
“What brings you to my village, chief of the Big Knives?” the Crow queried, as Bright Star translated for the benefit of the whites.
“Am I not welcome?”
“Yes, yes! the Crow loves the chief of the Big Knives as a brother.”