Such a man, reader, once held the mighty Pawnee nation under his thumb; they could go and come but at his bidding, he could inaugurate a massacre with a word, and save a captive with the same. He was still young, and an American, bred and born.
He seemed proud of his authority as he galloped at the head of his braves into the Indian village, and when he drew rein in the square, if “square” the plot of ground that held the council-house can be called, he raised his symmetrical body in the stirrups, and flashed his eyes over the concourse of noisy people below.
“Conduct the pale-faces to Kenoagla’s lodge!” he cried, suddenly turning to his followers who sat immobile on the backs of their exhausted steeds. “The River Wolf and his braves will guard them till I come.”
At these commands five Indians left their places, and three steeds were led from the band.
To one of these horses a handsome middle-aged white man was bound, while the other blankets, for the only saddle belonging to the marauders crowned the Pale Pawnee’s “buck-skin,” were occupied by two young girls, whose pale, tearful, fearful faces were exceedingly beautiful, and whose garments indicated wealth, but now, how strangely out of place!
“I demand, sir, our release for the last time,” said the gentleman, looking into the dandy demon’s face, as he was led past by a Pawnee. “The Government will not brook such an insult to one of her agents.”
A contemptuous smile curved the white king’s lips, and that smile grew broader when he glanced at the girls, just before his mustache-crowned lips parted in speech.
“I am a king sir!” he answered, proudly flashing the light of his dark eyes upon the captive gentleman. “A free king, sir, at that. I rule this country, as far as your eyes can reach, when the sun has reached the meridian. You see my capital, my subjects, my thunderbolts. Here, in my stronghold, or out on the plains, at the head of my red-boys, I defy the Government that sent you hither. I am an American! I am proud of the name; but I am a king, also. Lead on, Wolf. I will talk to Uncle Sam’s agent at some future time.”
“As sure as my name’s Frank Denison, you shall rue this indignity,” hissed the agent, through clenched teeth. “My Government will not submit to the hellish deeds of an Apache, the brutality—”
“Father, do not imitate the fiend!” interrupted the silvery voice of Mabel Denison. “Fiery words may send the bullet to your brain. We can curse in secret, and it will avail as much as anathemas poured upon his head in thunder tones.”