Then he said:
“The young men who thus acted toward the Pearl of the Hills were squaw braves, and they deserved their fate. White Slayer knows who has done this wrong to the Pearl, and he shall make his knife drink blood for it; but, Gray Chief, the palefaces must not come into our lands. They must be swept back upon the prairies.”
The white man smiled, for he was well pleased with these words.
“That is my opinion, too,” he declared, “and I am glad to see you are of the same mind. Now listen to me: Scouts have brought news that there are two bands of palefaces marching into our hills, and I wish you to assemble your warriors and prepare them for the warpath.
“Do not act in haste,” he urged, “for those men come here to remain, take my word for it. What we want to do is to bide our time, and so lay our plans that not one paleface shall ever tread the prairie sward again.”
“The Gray Chief hates his people,” quietly said the chief.
“Hate! I abhor, I curse them; and, White Slayer, when the scalp of the last man of these bands hangs upon yonder war pole, I promise you that my Pearl shall gladden your wigwam with her presence.”
The eyes of White Slayer glittered with joy, but he said quietly:
“It shall be as the Gray Chief says. In one moon there shall be five hundred warriors upon the warpath of the palefaces. White Slayer has said it.”