Murmurs of dissatisfaction now arose on every side, and the sachem’s eye swept the multitude, as with folded arms he calmly listened to the hoarse growlings of the storm.
“Hondurah is not a dog,” he cried at last. “The ring tells the white girl who she is. She does not know, and she shall not die until she knows whose child she is. When Oagla returns with the ring that talks, then shall die the three pale-faces who have spilled Chippewas’ blood. Peace, warriors; it will not be long. Does Oagla know where he threw the shining talker?”
“Oagla does.”
“Then let him step upon the trail before he speaks again. Wildcat, back to the prison-lodge with the White Tiger, and his mate. Silver Rifle will dwell in Hondurah’s lodge, till the boughs are gathered in the forest.”
While Hondurah spoke, Oagla was moving among the warriors, and presently he left the concourse, followed by six athletic young braves, who were numbered among the best trailers in the village.
The chief smarted under the reproof he had received from Hondurah, for he walked thoughtfully at the head of his warriors, and appeared to be devising a scheme which would bear fruit in the future.
“Silver Rifle learn to love Hondurah’s daughter,” said the chief, as he approached his lodge with the captive of his nation. “She with squaws now; but she come soon when she know that Silver Rifle goin’ to be her bedfellow for one sleep.”
The young trailer was ushered into the sachem’s lodge, and seated herself on a heap of skins, while Hondurah moved to the entrance, in which he stood with folded arms.
Presently Silver Rifle heard him speak; then came the soft voice of woman in reply, and Hondurah stepped back into the lodge leading a beautiful Indian girl by the hand.
“Here Clearwater, Silver Rifle,” he said. “She keep you company now, for Hondurah must go ’mong his chiefs.”