Black skin and Indian dress belied the Crow, who had the face, the expression, even the characteristic gestures of the modern business American, statesman, financier, or manufacturer, large-minded, lightning-swift of thought, niggard of slow words which bit like acid, straight to the point, and shrewdly humorous of judgment. "News of Rising Wolf?" he prompted.
"He came alive again," said the Indian merrily, "for the warpath against you, Big Chief, to take away your trade."
"He rode to the Hudson's Bay House?"
"No. To my sister Rain at the sacred lodge."
"Who set the Absaroka at me. Well?"
"I told you before," said Heap-of-dogs, "of my sister's man, the white man, the prophet, Storm. My sister is holy, but he has the white man's cunning. And Rising Wolf is wise. They come. They say their God shall drive you from our villages!"
The Crow knew better. "See, my son," he said. "Their God lives a long way off. I carry mine in this wagon. Which is the strongest—an enemy nation beyond the World Spine yonder, or the enemy warrior in your camp, knife in his teeth, creeping under the lodge skin, feeling the heave of your bed robe, finding the way for the heart? Such is my god; but theirs——" He chuckled softly, and Heap-of-dogs passaged his horse to and fro, played by the liquor.
"Where are they?" asked the trader.
"One hour up the pass, camped to cut out new lodge poles, and to hew a cross like they have at the holy place. They're going to set up that cross in front of your wagon. They make strong medicine to drive you away. I supped with them so I'm hungry, and thirsty. Big Chief, I love your god."
"You shall pray to him when you've told the news—you're keeping from me."