“But he sure enough put his mark on the Wolf. What a thrilling fight it was! I’ll never forget it.”
When the white boys had come to within a few rods of the ledge, the lithe young chief rose to his feet fishing spear in hand.
“Ho!” he said, his tone friendly.
“Ho, Bright Star!” Tom Gordon replied, equal friendliness in his voice.
The Pottawattomee could not have failed to be surprised—greatly surprised—by this recognition on the part of the pair of whites, but, with traditional Indian impassiveness, not a muscle of his features changed. Nor did the look of his eyes alter a whit.
“How you know Bright Star?” he queried, after a moment’s interval; his association with the soldiers and traders of the Fort Dearborn neighborhood had evidently enabled him to pick up a considerable understanding of English.
“We saw you fight the young Sac chief, Prairie Wolf,” answered Ben quickly.
“Ho, ho!” rejoined Bright Star.
“You are a brave fighter,” complimented Tom.
“Ho! The words of the white boy are good.”