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The White Squaw
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“And their answer?”
“The same as my own; they refused.”
Wacora gave a sigh of relief.
“When I carried that answer to the white he was not angry, but met me like a friend.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; he pressed upon my acceptance rich presents, and told me that Oluski’s friendship was worth more than land.”
“But you refused the presents,” said the young Indian, eagerly.
“I could not; my old friend would take no denial. Fearing to offend him, I yielded.”
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an Indian, one of the warriors of the tribe.
“What does Maracota want?” asked Oluski.
“To speak to Wacora, the chief.”
Wacora desired him to express his wishes in the presence of his uncle.
“Marcota must speak to Wacora alone, if Oluski will allow it.”
Oluski made a sign to his nephew, who rising, followed the man outside the door.
“Wacora must follow me further,” signified the Indian.
“Go on, I will do so.”
Maracota led the way, and only paused in his walk when he had got some distance from the dwelling.
“Has Wacora faith in Maracota?”
The young chief started at the question which his guide had put to him in a tone of strange earnestness.
“Yes. I have faith in you.”
“And he would serve Oluski, our chief?”
“With my life!”
“Sansuta is dear to Oluski.”
Again Wacora started. Maracota’s words were enigmatical.
His guide continued —
“Sansuta is beautiful.”
“We all know that. Was it to tell me this that you brought me here?”
“The pale-faces admire the beauty of our Indian maidens.”
“What of that?”
“One pale-face has marked Sansuta’s beauty.”
“Ha!”
“His eyes gladden at sight of her. Her cheeks grow red at sight of him.”
“His name?”
“Warren Rody.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Maracota is Oluski’s friend and watches over his chief’s happiness. To-night Warren’s messenger was in town – the negro, Crookleg.”
The young chief was silent. Maracota watched him without breaking in upon his thoughts.
Recovering himself, Wacora asked —
“Where did you see the negro?”
“In the old fort.”
“The old fort! What was he doing there?”
“Maracota followed his trail – a lame foot and a stick – and saw him as he entered the ruin; some one was waiting for him inside.”
“Who was with the negro,” demanded Wacora.
“His master,” repeated Maracota.
“Warren Rody?”
Maracota nodded.
“I heard their talk,” he said.
“What did they say?” asked the young chief.
“At first, I could not hear – they spoke in whispers. After a time they grew angry. Warren abused Crookleg and struck him. The black man uttered a fierce oath and leaped over the wall of the fort at the side opposite to where I lay hid.”
“Did you hear their conversation before they quarrelled?”
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