“Is that all?” he inquired carelessly.
“This day Eagle Feather run much cattle—beeg—beeg run.” The young man again swept the room with his arm.
“Bah! Eagle Feather is no good. He is an old squaw,” said Cameron.
“Huh!” agreed the Indian quickly. “Little Thunder go too.”
“Little Thunder, eh?” said Cameron, controlling his voice with an effort.
The lad nodded, his piercing eye upon Cameron's face.
For some minutes Cameron smoked quietly.
“And Onawata?” With startling suddenness he shot out the question.
Not a line of the Indian's face moved. He ignored the question, smoking steadily and looking before him.
“Ah, it is a strange way for Onawata to repay the white man's kindness to his son,” said Cameron. The contemptuous voice pierced the Indian's armor of impassivity. Cameron caught the swift quiver in the face that told that his stab had reached the quick. There is nothing in the Indian's catalogue of crimes so base as the sin of ingratitude.