So astounded was I at the last words of the Arapaho chief, that I paid no heed to what the Irishman was saying. I had turned towards Wingrove—not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the Indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. I had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! It needed no explanation. The Irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! From the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout:
“Hooray! he’s down—be my sowl! he’s down! I knew the owld musket ’ud raich him! Hooray!”
The report reverberated from the rocks—mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. In an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. The Red-Hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. The horse was down—stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death!
“Begorrah! cyaptin! wasn’t it a splindid shat?”
“A shot that may cost us our scalps,” said I: for I saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement—even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. “Ha, ha, ha!” came the wild laugh of the Arapaho. “Vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!”
And shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors.