"I will get your supper now, while the chiefs are talking. It shall be a good supper—good enough for Many Bears. Then you shall tell me all I ask."
"Of course I will," said Rita.
A fine fat deer had been deposited near that camp fire by one of the first hunters that had returned, and Mother Dolores was free to cut and carve from it, but her first attempt at a supper for the girls did not succeed very well. It was not on account of any fault of hers, however, or because the venison steak she cut and spread upon the coals, while her corn-bread was frying, did not broil beautifully.
No; the temporary disappointment of Ni-ha-be and Rita was not the fault of Mother Dolores. Their mighty father was sitting where the odor of that cookery blew down upon him, and it made him hungry again before the steak was done. He called Red Wolf to help him, for the other braves were departing to their own camp fires, and in a minute or so more there was little left of the supper intended for the two young squaws. Dolores patiently cut and began to broil another slice, but that was Red Wolf's first supper, and it was the third slice which found its way into the lodge, after all.
The strange part of it was that not even Ni-ha-be dreamed of complaining. It was according to custom.
There was plenty of time to eat supper after it came, for Dolores was compelled to look out for her own. She would not have allowed any other squaw to cook for her, any more than she herself would have condescended to fry a cake for any one below the rank of her own husband and his family.
Mere common braves and their squaws could take care of themselves, and it was of small consequence to Dolores whether they had anything to eat or not. There is more "aristocracy" among the wild red men than anywhere else, and they have plenty of white imitators who should know better.