“It matters not. Forget not, oh, White Antelope, that I am the medicine chief of the Sioux——”
“And see that the Death Killer forget not that I am the daughter of Oak Heart!” she interrupted.
“I acknowledge that fact,” sneered Boyd Bennett. “But the White Antelope has no control over the acts of the Death Killer.”
“Did the paleface fall to your prowess?” she demanded again, looking the renegade sternly in the eye.
An Indian stepped forward. He carried a blood-stained war-club in one hand. In a deep guttural he said:
“The white chief’s scalp should be Red Knife’s; he brought him low at last with a blow of his club. But the great chief, Oak Heart, forbade that we take the scalp of so brave a warrior.”
“Then why does the Death Killer wish to do that which is forbidden by my father?” cried the girl quickly.
“Is it the White Antelope’s place to question the medicine chief of her tribe?” demanded the painted white man, with haughty demeanor. “The scalp of the dead bluecoat is my prize!”
Buffalo Bill saw indecision in the Indian maiden’s face. He knew how superstitious the redskins were regarding the mysterious powers claimed by all medicine chiefs. In some way—by some manner of fake magic—Boyd Bennett had roused the superstitious reverence of the Sioux, and Buffalo Bill did not know how greatly the chief’s daughter might be tainted by this feeling of reverence for the villainous renegade.
“Let not this crime be done, White Antelope,” he said in her ear. “Remember what Pa-e-has-ka told you in the cañon, when he had you in his power. He knows much. He was once your mother’s trusted friend. And he warns you now—as you hope for peace of soul and body—not to allow the dead young man to be so treated by your people.”