“Look here, Ned,” and Tom Kyle’s voice sunk to a whisper. “Don’t you want a wife?”
“I leave one in the Apache camp.”
“Of course,” responded Tom, “but I’m talking about a white wife.”
“I may find one in Mexico.”
“Pshaw! can’t you see what I am driving at? I say, don’t you want that black-haired girl behind us?”
“I don’t know. She has a lover already.”
“Don’t be so accursed conscientious. The other girl is mine, and you might as well take the brunette.”
Gold Feather was silent; the battle between right and wrong was going on in his mind, and when he looked up, the keen eyes of his brother were fastened upon him.
“Tom, we can’t get them without spilling pure blood, and then we have no right—”
“Pish! who cares for a little blood?” interrupted the Pawnee king. “You didn’t the other day, when you dropped Wolf Eyes. Come, Ned, don’t be so infernal scrupulous. Work with me. I owe that trapper one. He tried to take me to Fort Kearney, and if I ever get there I’ll swing, p’r’aps. He’ll try to get me there now, and you, too, boy. He’s a veritable devil who smiles when he plots against us. I hate him; he hates us both!”