As now he sat, with head sunken on his hands, and eyes fixed on the embers, there sounded close by a noise as of human steps upon the snow. The Sioux turned towards the side from whence the sound proceeded, and saw in the dim light of the snow the figure of a man. Calm as he habitually was—accustomed to regard the sudden indications of danger with the outward semblance of repose, he nevertheless on this occasion felt creep upon him the sensation of fear. Weird and ghostly, the figure seemed to have risen out of the white ground. Instinctively the Sioux grasped the rifle that lay near him. The strange figure seemed to catch the movement: he spoke.
“As a friend I have sought your camp,” he said. “Had I come as an enemy, you would not have seen me.”
Red Cloud relinquished his half-grasped rifle, and rose to meet the stranger.
“Who are you?”
“I am Maskeypeton the Iroquois.”
The wind still rising, now blew a strong gust, which swept the camp, causing the flames to flare for a moment through the dry wood of the fire. The light fell full upon the face of the stranger, revealing features well known to the Sioux.
“Maskeypeton the Iroquois,” he said, “no matter what has brought your steps at this hour to my camp, you are welcome. Sit down and share my fire.”
The stranger answered, “There was a day, years ago, when you turned your horse’s head to take a wounded Iroquois from under the guns of the Long-knives by the banks of the Yellowstone. Maskeypeton is here to-night because of that day. Last evening,” he said, “I struck your trail on the ice of the Pascopee. I was then bound for where I had heard your hut lay. I followed your trail while daylight lasted, rested until the moon rose, and then kept the track that led me hither.”
The Sioux listened in silence.