"No stronger--no weaker--just so. Good many ole womans, too, among pale-faces."
"Old women!--You are not speaking literally, Nick? All that I have seen appear to be men."
"Got beard; but ole woman, too. Talk--talk--talk;--do not'in'. Dat what Injin call ole woman. Party, poor party; cap'in beat 'em, if he fight like ole time."
"Well, this is encouraging, Wilhelmina, and Nick seems to be dealing fairly with us."
"Now, inquire more about Robert, Hugh"--said the wife, in whose maternal heart her children were always uppermost.
"You hear, Nick; my wife is desirous of learning something about her son, next."
During the preceding dialogue, there had been something equivocal in the expression of the Indian's face. Every word he uttered about the party, its numbers, and his own manner of falling in with it, was true, and his countenance indicated that he was dealing fairly. Still, the captain fancied that he could detect a covert fierceness in his eye and air, and he felt uneasiness even while he yielded him credence. As soon as Mrs. Willoughby, however, interposed, the gleam of ferocity that passed so naturally and readily athwart the swarthy features of the savage, melted into a look of gentleness, and there were moments when it might be almost termed softness.
"Good to have moder"--said Nick, kindly. "Wyandotté got no squaw--wife dead, moder dead, sister dead--all gone to land of spirits--bye'm-by, chief follow. No one throw stone on his grave! Been on death-path long ago, but cap'in's squaw say 'stop, Nick; little too soon, now; take medicine, and get well.' Squaw made to do good. Chief alway like 'e squaw, when his mind not wild with war."
"And your mind, Wyandotté, is not wild with war, now," answered Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly. "You will help a mother, then, to get her son out of the hands of merciless enemies?"
"Why you t'ink merciless? Because pale-face dress like Injin, and try to cheat?"