When the trapper had rendered his meaning into the Sioux language, Mahtoree demanded, with an air of surprise—
“Is my brother cold? buffaloe skins are plenty. Is he hungry? Let my young men carry venison into his lodges.”
The squatter elevated his clenched fist in a menacing manner, and struck it with violence on the palm of his open hand, by way of confirming his determination, as he answered—
“Tell the deceitful liar, I have not come like a beggar to pick his bones, but like a freeman asking for his own; and have it I will. And, moreover, tell him I claim that you, too, miserable sinner as you ar’, should be given up to justice. There’s no mistake. My prisoner, my niece, and you. I demand the three at his hands, according to a sworn agreement.”
The immovable old man smiled, with an expression of singular intelligence, as he answered—
“Friend squatter, you ask what few men would be willing to grant. You would first cut the tongue from the mouth of the Teton, and then the heart from his bosom.”
“It is little that Ishmael Bush regards, who or what is damaged in claiming his own. But put you the questions in straight-going Indian, and when you speak of yourself, make such a sign as a white man will understand, in order that I may know there is no foul play.”
The trapper laughed in his silent fashion, and muttered a few words to himself before he addressed the chief—
“Let the Dahcotah open his ears very wide,” he said “that big words may have room to enter. His friend the Big-knife comes with an empty hand, and he says that the Teton must fill it.”
“Wagh! Mahtoree is a rich chief. He is master of the prairies.”