"I speak as chief," continued the envious Sitting Wolf, and his upward glance was full of menace now. "I speak for your good.
"We know that your father was bad because your riding is a sin, and the Sun clouds his face at the sight. Your seat in a canoe wakes the winds to howl. Your feet on the trail break sticks and stumble over roots to frighten away the game and affront the Holy Animals. You have an ill-trained nose which cannot smell a real bear at ten paces. Your sight may be long and keen, but you have never learned to note the thing which moves at a distance. Your arrows are a danger to us, and with the medicine iron your bullets hit the sky, offending the Above Spirits. Your fishing amuses the fish, but affronts the Under-water Spirits. You never pray for the help of the Holy Animals. You say you do your best. You try, but one who does not succeed becomes a danger to his comrades whether in running buffalo or on the war trail. Until you can feed and defend a woman and help in the tribe's defense, you are not fit to marry among my people. We live too near the Lodge of the Hunger Spirit to take such risks as that. Later I shall speak more of my mind, but first the medicine man has words to say."
Storm was not at all pleased. Truth is void of manners, and yet has a front and a back, an outside and an inside. Here was only the outside of Truth spoken in anger, with ill-veiled intention of enmity, by one who had always seemed to be a friend.
Now spoke the withered medicine man, kindly, fatuous Beaver Tail, who saw another aspect of the Truth, and loved a platitude.
"White Man, our chief has spoken, and of course his words are my words. Yet these three winters, friends, and not your enemies, have watched you, and a friend speaks now. Bad was your father, yet you are the son of a good woman."
Storm looked up, and the sullen resentment seemed to vanish from his face.
"Sitting Wolf, as chief," said the old man, "speaks to your father's son. I as priest speak to your mother's son. She gave you strength and staying power. The work you do should kill the strongest of our young men. She gave you also a quick mind, a straight tongue, a good heart. For these, not for your skill as a hunter or warrior, we make you a member of our tribe, and subject to our laws."
"Artful old devil!" was the white man's inner thought. "He wants me subject to the tribal law, so that the chief can claim old Fatbald's property."
"Go on," he said, eager to fathom the plot which underlay these compliments.
"Your Dream," continued Beaver Tail, under his breath, his hands making signs of prayer, "your Secret Helper is a strong and very holy animal. Your medicine is becoming powerful." He smiled engagingly, frankly. "Your white man's cunning is of use to us. We have decided to make you a member of this council."