The determined manner in which Jennie Bernard asserted that her father would not remove from his home, and that no Sioux would harm him or his family, surprised Kit Carey immensely.
"May I ask, Miss Bernard, what influence your father holds over the Sioux that he believes he can thus wield them to his will?"
"I only know, sir, that he regards the Indians as his friends, and they look upon him in the same light," was the answer.
"Yet you were not exempt from an attack from them?"
"That is true, yet they were not the representatives of the band."
"Miss Bernard, when an Indian has his war-paint on he is sullen and ferocious, and knows no friendships. Treachery is a virtue in his eyes, gratitude is forgotten, and a scalp of a pale-face, whether it be from an infant, woman, or soldier, is a prize that a redskin will risk his life to obtain. They are as merciless as they are cruel, and if they do not kill their victim he is saved for torture. I know the Indians well, and I tell you plainly you must not trust Red Hatchet, for his intelligence, and having seen considerable of the world away from his people, but renders him the more dangerous. He will destroy your home, kill your parents, and bear you into captivity. Your father must not linger here a day."
Kit Carey spoke with deep earnestness, and Jennie Bernard stretched out her hand, and said, in her frank way:
"I thank you; but I fear he will refuse to go. Here is our home." And she pointed to the log cabin that just then came into view.
It was a succession of cabins rather than one, surrounded by large outbuildings, all neatly whitewashed and fenced in.
A brook ran near, there was a grove of trees, pines predominating, and the spot was a cheery one, the home most inviting.