“Lightfoot is a long way from the village?” said the chief, speaking to the younger Indian, who was none other than the warrior whom the two scouts had observed.
“He was with the party that followed the old trapper,” said Lightfoot. “We lost his trail and could not find it again.”
“If the young men wish to find the old whitehead, they can do it by going up the river.”
Crazy Snake waved his hand in the direction whence he had come. He led the way under the cover of the trees, and then turned to the young Indian, who had followed silently behind the prisoner.
At the first word it was plain that Crazy Snake had taken a new line of thought.
“Can the great chief trust his son?” he said, speaking in the hyperbole characteristic of the red men, for Lightfoot was not related to him.
Lightfoot folded his arms upon his paint-smeared bosom and looked Crazy Snake full in the eye.
“The son of the great chief, Crazy Snake, has but to hear and obey,” he said. “Let the chief speak. Lightfoot is but a child, and will learn wisdom of the great chief.”
They spoke in Blackfoot, of which the prisoner did not understand a word.
She felt so weak and trembling that she was almost on the point of sinking to the ground. She lifted her eyes to heaven, as if praying, and uttered a name, the name of one who, she was sure, would follow to the ends of the earth, to rescue or avenge her, if he but knew. And she uttered, also, the name of Buffalo Bill.