The lowering aspect of the Teton warrior so far lost its severity, as to suffer a gleam of pleasure and triumph to lighten its ferocity, as sweeping his arm in an entire circle around his person he answered—
“What tribe or nation has not felt the blows of the Dahcotahs?
Mahtoree is their partisan.”
“And has he found the Big-knives women, or has he found them men?”
A multitude of fierce passions were struggling in the tawny countenance of the Indian.
For a moment inextinguishable hatred seemed to hold the mastery, and then a nobler expression, and one that better became the character of a brave, got possession of his features, and maintained itself until, first throwing aside his light robe of pictured deer-skin, and pointing to the scar of a bayonet in his breast, he replied—
“It was given, as it was taken, face to face.”
“It is enough.
My brother is a brave chief, and he should be wise.
Let him look: is that a warrior of the Pale-faces?
Was it one such as that who gave the great Dahcotah his hurt?”
The eyes of Mahtoree followed the direction of the old man’s extended arm, until they rested on the drooping form of Inez.
The look of the Teton was long, riveted, and admiring.
Like that of the young Pawnee, it resembled more the gaze of a mortal on some heavenly image, than the admiration with which man is wont to contemplate even the loveliness of woman.
Starting, as if suddenly self-convicted of forgetfulness, the chief next turned his eyes on Ellen, where they lingered an instant with a much more intelligible expression of admiration, and then pursued their course until they had taken another glance at each individual of the party.
“My brother sees that my tongue is not forked,” continued the trapper, watching the emotions the other betrayed, with a readiness of comprehension little inferior to that of the Teton himself. “The Big-knives do not send their women to war.
I know that the Dahcotahs will smoke with the strangers.”
“Mahtoree is a great chief!
The Big-knives are welcome,” said the Teton, laying his hand on his breast, with an air of lofty politeness that would have done credit to any state of society. “The arrows of my young men are in their quivers.”
The trapper motioned to Middleton to approach, and in a few moments the two parties were blended in one, each of the males having exchanged friendly greetings, after the fashions of the prairie warriors.
But, even while engaged in this hospitable manner, the Dahcotah did not fail to keep a strict watch on the more distant party of white men, as if he still distrusted an artifice, or sought further explanation.
The old man, in his turn, perceived the necessity of being more explicit, and of securing the slight and equivocal advantage he had already obtained.
While affecting to examine the group, which still lingered at the spot where it had first halted, as if to discover the characters of those who composed it, he plainly saw that Ishmael contemplated immediate hostilities.
The result of a conflict on the open prairie, between a dozen resolute border men, and the half-armed natives, even though seconded by their white allies, was in his experienced judgment a point of great uncertainty, and though far from reluctant to engage in the struggle on account of himself, the aged trapper thought it far more worthy of his years, and his character, to avoid than to court the contest.
His feelings were, for obvious reasons, in accordance with those of Paul and Middleton, who had lives still more precious than their own to watch over and protect.
In this dilemma the three consulted on the means of escaping the frightful consequences which might immediately follow a single act of hostility on the part of the borderers; the old man taking care that their communication should, in the eyes of those who noted the expression of their countenances with jealous watchfulness, bear the appearance of explanations as to the reason why such a party of travellers was met so far in the deserts.
“I know that the Dahcotahs are a wise and great people,” at length the trapper commenced, again addressing himself to the chief; “but does not their partisan know a single brother who is base?”
The eye of Mahtoree wandered proudly around his band, but rested a moment reluctantly on Weucha, as he answered—
“The Master of Life has made chiefs, and warriors, and women;” conceiving that he thus embraced all the gradations of human excellence from the highest to the lowest.
“And he has also made Pale-faces, who are wicked.
Such are they whom my brother sees yonder.”
“Do they go on foot to do wrong?” demanded the Teton, with a wild gleam from his eyes, that sufficiently betrayed how well he knew the reason why they were reduced to so humble an expedient.
“Their beasts are gone. But their powder, and their lead, and their blankets remain.”
“Do they carry their riches in their hands, like miserable Konzas? or are they brave, and leave them with the women, as men should do, who know where to find what they lose?”
“My brother sees the spot of blue across the prairie; look, the sun has touched it for the last time to-day.”
“Mahtoree is not a mole.”
“It is a rock; on it are the goods of the Big-knives.”
An expression of savage joy shot into the dark countenance of the Teton as he listened; turning to the old man he seemed to read his soul, as if to assure himself he was not deceived.
Then he bent his look on the party of Ishmael, and counted its number.
“One warrior is wanting,” he said.
“Does my brother see the buzzards? there is his grave.
Did he find blood on the prairie?
It was his.”
“Enough!
Mahtoree is a wise chief.
Put your women on the horses of the Dahcotahs: we shall see, for our eyes are open very wide.”
The trapper wasted no unnecessary words in explanation.
Familiar with the brevity and promptitude of the natives, he immediately communicated the result to his companions.
Paul was mounted in an instant, with Ellen at his back.
A few more moments were necessary to assure Middleton of the security and ease of Inez.