The eye of Mahtoree wandered proudly around his band, but rested a moment reluctantly on Weucha, as he answered—
“The Master of Life has made chiefs, and warriors, and women;” conceiving that he thus embraced all the gradations of human excellence from the highest to the lowest.
“And he has also made Pale-faces, who are wicked. Such are they whom my brother sees yonder.”
“Do they go on foot to do wrong?” demanded the Teton, with a wild gleam from his eyes, that sufficiently betrayed how well he knew the reason why they were reduced to so humble an expedient.
“Their beasts are gone. But their powder, and their lead, and their blankets remain.”
“Do they carry their riches in their hands, like miserable Konzas? or are they brave, and leave them with the women, as men should do, who know where to find what they lose?”
“My brother sees the spot of blue across the prairie; look, the sun has touched it for the last time to-day.”
“Mahtoree is not a mole.”
“It is a rock; on it are the goods of the Big-knives.”
An expression of savage joy shot into the dark countenance of the Teton as he listened; turning to the old man he seemed to read his soul, as if to assure himself he was not deceived. Then he bent his look on the party of Ishmael, and counted its number.