Many of the braves were out on hunting bent, but Red Knife had not seen any of them for twenty-four hours. Nor had he beheld a white man until, coming down to drink at the edge of the stream which watered this valley, he suddenly saw a figure in buckskin sitting upon a great, white horse on the opposite side of the stream. In the fading light of the evening the being looked gigantic to the red man—who was in a state of mind to see ghosts or anything else eerie! The strange figure was that of a white man. He had hair flowing to his shoulders, and he sat his horse with folded arms, staring off into the distance, evidently wrapped in deep thought.
The wind was with the brave, and the horse even did not notice his presence. Red Knife might have crossed the stream and leaped upon the unsuspicious white man. Yet his mind was not upon killing, and when he finally recognized the stranger as the far-famed Pa-e-has-ka or Long Hair [he feared] and would not, single-handed, have attempted the man’s death.
Seldom might Buffalo Bill have been so easily caught napping. But he had seen no trace of Indians in the valley; he had ridden through it to this spot, and now his mind had reverted to his deep sorrow regarding Dick Danforth’s death, and he thought of nothing else.
He roused at last from his reverie with a sigh, and glanced about him. His vision fell upon the figure of the young brave standing, likewise with folded arms, upon the edge of the stream. He could not repress a start of surprise at the appearance.
“How!” grunted Red Knife.
“How!” repeated the scout, in English.
Then in the Sioux dialect he said:
“Is it peace, brother?”
“It is peace.”
The scout had seen that the young buck was not panoplied for war, and now he dismounted and came to his side of the stream.