A blush mantled the white girl’s cheeks.
“Ha!” cried Clearwater, smiling, “Hondurah’s child speak wrong. White Tiger is something to Silver Rifle.”
“Girl, I never talked with him until this day.”
Quickly Clearwater placed her hand on Silver Rifle’s breast, and with a curious face looked up as she felt the pulsations of the heart.
“Heart beat fast when Clearwater talk of White Tiger,” said the Indian girl. “Silver Rifle shall not die when Oagla come back.”
“Who can save me, girl?”
“Silver Rifle shall not die when Oagla come back,” repeated the girl, with emphasis.
“Shall he die, then?”
“Silver Rifle see,” and, with sudden impulse, the chief’s daughter sprung from the cot, and stepped to the door. She parted the curtains, and stood face to face with her father.
“Young braves talking bad talk in their lodges,” said Hondurah, as he entered his own wigwam. “But they won’t take prisoners to the hollow to-night. Hondurah stand by strong lodge himself, and Yucata with his old braves and Clearwater guard Silver Rifle.”