“Much as the red man loves these hills and plains, he would not sell his services for it all, to the white thief who stole the lives of squaws and papooses,” and the stern red man waved his arms to signify all around him.
“Won’t you procure us food for money?”
“If the red chief had the rotten meat you have given his red brother, he would sell it to you.”
“See!” cried Price, attempting to awaken pity in the heart of the Indian, “I shiver and die.”
“If the red chief had the rags you have given his braves for blankets, he would burn them that the sight might rekindle the fires in the paleface robber’s blood.”
Price said no more, but held his trembling hands in the feeble blaze and waited. All his offers were spurned, and he knew that any further appeal would be useless.
“I go, paleface dog,” said the Crow trailer, “but I shall come again, and your paper lies shall hang over the same fire and shrivel, and squirm, and burn with you.”
“Don’t tell Buffalo Bill where I am!” gasped Price feebly.
“Buffalo Bill’s heart too big and soft. Sioux warriors hate the agent with the forked tongue.”
The Indian vanished and Price sank down by his little fire, broken and disheartened. In a short month he had come to this from a position of importance in a respectable community. Then he spent money right and left and lived in luxury, with henchmen to do his bidding; now he was freezing, starving, and men of all races turned their hands against him.