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"Is my brother far from his village?" demanded the old man, in the
Pawnee language, after examining the paint, and those other little
signs by which a practised eye knows the tribe of the warrior he
encounters in the American deserts, with the same readiness, and by
the same sort of mysterious observation, as that by which the seaman
knows the distant sail.
"It is farther to the towns of the Big-knives," was the laconic reply.
"Why is a Pawnee-Loup so far from the fork of his own river, without a
horse to journey on, and in a spot empty as this?"
"Can the women and children of a Pale-face live without the meat of
the bison? There was hunger in my lodge."
"My brother is very young to be already the master of a lodge,"
returned the trapper, looking steadily into the unmoved countenance of
the youthful warrior; "but I dare say he is brave, and that many a
chief has offered him his daughters for wives. But he has been
mistaken," pointing to the arrow, which was dangling from the hand
that held the bow, "in bringing a loose and barbed arrow-head to kill
the buffaloe.


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