“It pleases me to hear you say it, chief; and let me tell you, that a great foe to your people is in yonder valley—a man before whom your stoutest warriors tremble. I saw him.”
“The Sioux warriors never fly from a foe; they know no fear,” proudly returned the chief.
“And yet I have seen Sioux braves, who, when a score in number, dared not face that man.”
“Who is this great brave?” asked the chief, with considerable interest.
“Buffalo Bill, the scout!”
In spite of himself the young chief flinched at the name, and his eagle eye glanced quickly around the surrounding hills, rapidly darkening before the approach of night.
“He is a great brave; but his scalp will yet be taken,” replied White Slayer, with the braggadocio spirit natural to the redskin.
The old man’s eyes lighted with triumph.
“See that it is. Now I will go back to my home in the hills, for I like not your lowlands, chief.”
So saying, the old man walked rapidly back the way he had come, his thoughts too busy to bestow more than a passing glance upon the Indian village. It was now hidden in gloom, excepting here and there where a camp fire glimmered in front of some wigwam, whose lord had been late in returning to the bosom of his red family, and where the patient squaw was busy in preparing him his supper.