“What are the thoughts of Bounding Bull?” said Little Tim, at length breaking silence with something like a groan.
“Despair,” replied the chief, with a dark frown; “and,” he added, with a touch of hesitation, “revenge.”
“Your thoughts are not much different from mine,” returned the hunter.
“My brothers are not wise,” said Whitewing, after another silence. “All that Manitou does to His children is good. I have hope.”
“I wish my brother could give me some of his hope. What does he rest his hope on?” asked Little Tim.
“Long ago,” answered the chief, “when Rushing River was a boy, the white preacher spoke to him about his soul and the Saviour. The boy’s heart was touched. I saw it; I knew it. The seed has lain long in the ground, but it is sure to grow, for it must have been the Spirit of Manitou that touched him; and will He not finish the work that He begins? That is my hope.”
The chief’s eyes glittered in the firelight while he spoke. His two companions listened with grave attention, but said no word in reply. Yet it was evident, as they lay down for a few hours’ rest, that the scowl of revenge and the writing of despair had alike in some measure departed from the brow of each.