“My spirit shall not pass,” he said, and straightway he rose and dressed, and to the astonishment of the tribe emerged from his tent and walked firmly about the village until he found Crooked Lightning.
“You would have Black Wolf chief,” he said. “Very well. We shall see who can show the better right—your son or White Arrow”—a challenge that sent Crooked Lightning to brood awhile in his tent, and then secretly to consult the prophet.
Later the old chief talked long to White Arrow. The prophet, he said, had been with them but a little while. He claimed that the Great Spirit had made revelations to him alone. What manner of man was he, questioned the boy—did he have ponies and pelts and jerked meat?
“He is poor,” said the chief. “He has only a wife and children and the tribe feeds him.”
White Arrow himself grunted—it was the first sign of his old life stirring within him.
“Why should the Great Spirit pick out such a man to favor?” he asked. The chief shook his head.
“He makes muzzi-neen for the young men, shows them where to find game and they find it.”
“But game is plentiful,” persisted the lad.
“You will hear him drumming in the woods at night.”
“I heard him last night and I thought he was a fool to frighten the game away.”