“It is true, Oak Heart, that I have been your foe, and the foe of your people of late. It was not always so. When the Sioux would dwell at peace with the paleface, were content to live and hunt in these mountains and not fall upon and kill the white soldiers, Long Hair was their friend.
“When the Wise Woman lived and her wisdom guided the tribe, the Sioux remained at peace with the paleface. But now worse councils prevail among you, and your young men go out to battle and are slain. And what do you gain? The palefaces are as numberless as the leaves of the forest. When you kill one, two come in his place; where you kill two, a dozen appear. Take the word of one who has smoked in your lodges and heard wisdom from your old men. The Long Hair tells you to bury the hatchet and smoke the peace-pipe with the white chiefs. Then shall you have content and your bellies be filled, and your young men shall grow up and be great hunters and your young squaws live to bear children.
“Long Hair has spoken. If the Sioux kill me, it is but one white man dead. But how many will strike the trail of the Sioux to avenge my death? The Sioux have already lost many braves. Let them be content; blood enough has been spilled. Is it not so?
“Remember, too, oh, Oak Heart, how Long Hair has sat in your lodge and talked with you and the Wise Woman before the Great Spirit took her. Here!” he drew from his hunting-shirt a sacred tomahawk pipe with a broken edge. “Here is the pledge given to Long-Hair long ago by the Wise Woman, and by Oak Heart. Then was Oak Heart’s mind single; he was not full of wiles and thoughts of evil against the white men and against Long Hair. This was the pledge that Long Hair and the Sioux should never be at enmity. And has the enmity been of Long Hair’s seeking? Nay! The red men started to slay. The Long Hair must go with his people. Has he done wrong?
“See! Must Pa-e-has-ka die?” and he held up the trophy again.
A deathlike silence had fallen upon the lodge. The old chief was greatly moved, and for an Indian—especially a councilor—to show emotion is a disgrace. Perhaps, too, his mind was filled with thoughts of the Wise Woman, of whom Buffalo Bill had spoken so feelingly.
Years before, when Oak Heart was a much younger man, the tribe had raided far to the south, by the waters of a great river. They had come upon a ranchman and his family, killed him, flung his body into the river, and taken his wife, a beautiful white squaw, captive. None but the son of the ranchman—a mere child—escaped. He had been found and cared for after the massacre by Buffalo Bill.
The white squaw’s brain had been turned by the horror of that time. She wandered about the encampment in a dazed state. The Indians have a great awe of those who are insane, believing that the finger of the Great Spirit has touched them. She was cared for tenderly and brought north with the tribe.
She was a skilful woman with herbs and simples. She nursed the wounded warriors; she helped the women in travail; she cared for the children and the young squaws. She was much beloved. Her influence, even before her mind cleared, became one for great good in the tribe.
Slowly she grew normal once more. Years had passed. Instead of golden tresses, her hair was as white as the snow upon the mountain peaks. Yet she was still a young woman and good to look upon. Oak Heart loved her. He had treated her with the utmost respect and kindness. She had lived so long among the redskins that she had lost all distaste for them, and had imbibed many of their religious beliefs. She was unutterably opposed to the warring of the tribe with the whites, however.