“Black Wolf, son of Crooked Lightning.”
“Ah!” thought Erskine.
Within the old chief called faintly and the Indian woman motioned the lad to go within. The old man’s dim eyes had a new fire.
“Talk!” he commanded and motioned to the ground, but the lad did not squat Indian fashion, but stood straight with arms folded, and the chief knew that a conflict was coming. Narrowly he watched White Arrow’s face and bearing—uneasily felt the strange new power of him.
“I have been with my own people,” said the lad simply, “the palefaces who have come over the big mountains and have built forts and planted corn, and they were kind to me. I went over those mountains, on and on almost to the big waters. I found my kin. They are many and strong and rich. They have big houses of stone such as I had never seen nor heard of and they plant more corn than all the Shawnees and Iroquois. They, too, were kind to me. I came because you had been kind and because you were sick and because you had sent for me, and to keep my word.
“I have seen Crooked Lightning. His heart is bad. I have seen the new prophet. I do not like him. And I have seen the white woman that you are to burn to-morrow.” The lad stopped. His every word had been of defense or indictment and more than once the old chief’s eyes shifted uneasily.
“Why did you leave us?”
“To see my people and because of Crooked Lightning and his brother.”
“You fought us.”
“Only the brother, and I killed him.” The dauntless mien of the boy, his steady eyes, and his bold truthfulness, pleased the old man. The lad must take his place as chief. Now White Arrow turned questioner: