The guide made no reply, but the forced compression of his lips, and the muscular contraction that passed over his sinewy frame, showed how deeply he cherished that vengeance which the Indian’s word awakened.
“This is then,” said our hero to himself, “the cause of that fierce unextinguishable hate which Baptiste has always borne to these Sioux; I cannot wonder at it.” Reginald continued, however, his conversation respecting his new friend’s equipment, in the same tone: “My brother’s war–club is strong, and that iron spike in its head is sharp; but the rifle kills from far, and the white men are not all friends to him.”
“War–Eagle has ears and eyes; he can see snakes in the grass,” was the calm reply.
“Nay, but my brother is careless,” said Reginald laughing; “Grande–Hâche, as you call him, and I are two men, both strong and armed with rifles: if we were not his brothers, the War–Eagle would be in danger.”
“The bad Spirit made the thick water and the horses too strong for War–Eagle,” said the latter, referring to the morning’s accident, “but he could not be hurt by his brother’s rifle.”
“And why so?” demanded Reginald.
“Because,” said the Indian, “the white warrior has smoked, has taken his brother’s gift, and the Great Spirit has written on his face that he cannot speak lies.”
“You are right, my brave friend,” said Reginald (not a little gratified by the untutored compliment); “but if you fall in with white men who carry rifles, and who do speak lies—how fares it with you then?”
“War–Eagle is always ready,” said he, in the same unmoved tone; “the Grande–Hâche is a great warrior—my brother will take many scalps; yet if their tongues were forked—if their hearts were bad—both would die where they now sit—they have neither ears nor eyes—but the Lenapé is a chief, they are as safe here as in the great white village.”