While he was eating, the Apache opened his eyes. For some time he regarded the placid-faced king of scouts with a deeply malevolent expression. But when he spoke in the tongue of his tribe, the expression had disappeared.
“Coffee for the great white warrior, cold water for Thunder Cloud.”
Buffalo Bill started, then looked at the Apache keenly. “So you are the renowned Thunder Cloud, are you?” he inquired in the Indian language.
The Apache nodded, and there was pride in his look.
“A chief,” the king of scouts went on reproachfully, “who stoops to the work of the slinking, murderous brave. Thunder Cloud has forfeited the respect of his foes.”
The Indian’s eyes blazed with anger. “The great white warrior speaks without thought. Thunder Cloud was whipped like a dog by the white captain, and now he is a chief without a tribe.”
“Yes, I heard of that whipping,” returned the king of scouts cuttingly. “Thunder Cloud broke his parole, and Captain Foster punished him.”
The Indian gnashed his teeth in savage recollection of the action which had disgraced him in the eyes of the Americans.
There was silence for a few moments. Buffalo Bill broke it by asking: “Would the chief like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes,” was the quick answer.