A husky laugh gurgled in Bradford’s throat, as he answered:
“You are a fool—you think to deceive me. As soon as we are out of your presence, you will call your red hounds and set them upon us. No! I cannot trust you—your hour has come. Prepare to meet the Great Spirit whose name you have defamed. You are a treacherous cur—and you shall die!”
“Have I ever deceived you, Scar Face?” the Prophet asked tremulously, in his terror dropping the figurative form of speech to which he was addicted, and speaking in the first person.
“N-o,” Bradford admitted.
“Nor am I deceiving you now,” the kneeling savage hastened to say. “You and your friend shall go free—none shall molest you. You shall come and go at your pleasure. I was mad to threaten you——”
“Indeed, you were!” Bradford interrupted, dropping his arm, but still retaining a firm hold upon his knife. “Now, Tenskwatawa, if you have come to your senses, arise and give heed to what I say. This is the second time you have pitted yourself against me—and both times you have been worsted. The next time I shall not bandy words with you. Do you understand my meaning?”
The Prophet, who had arisen to his feet, nodded meekly.
“Very well,” Scar Face continued, “you are desirous of wresting your lands from the grasping Americans. The British are your allies. They have furnished your children with arms, ammunition, and clothing. I am their agent. Do you wish me to return to my people and tell them you sought to take my life?”
Tenskwatawa sullenly but emphatically shook his head.