It may have been the love of adventure that moved Fred Wilder, or it may have been the desire of gain, stimulated by the prospect that the Blackfoot held out to him. Impulsively he grasped the hand of White Shield, and the two pledged eternal friendship and brotherhood after the Indian fashion.
“My brother was fighting me a few moments ago,” said Wilder. “Why was he so anxious to kill me? It is seldom that you red-skins dare to attack a white man singly, unless you have an advantage over him.”
“White Shield is no coward,” replied the Blackfoot. “It is long since I have taken a scalp, and my people have lately suffered many reverses. I wished to carry home a scalp, so that the Blackfeet in my village might wash the mourning paint from their faces. I did not know that my brother had the advantage of me, in owning a rifle that would shoot twice. I never saw such a rifle.”
“I had the advantage of you in another point, after your horse was killed. You were afoot, while I might have mounted at any moment.”
Wilder whistled, and his horse, which was grazing at a little distance, came running to him. He examined the wound, which was a slight one, and transferred to the back of the horse the Indian’s saddle and blankets and bridle. The two then set out toward the north-west, White Shield leading the way on foot.
When George Benning and his three companions set out on the trail of the marauders who had attacked their camp, they were all afoot; but they hoped soon to be able to get a remount, at the expense of some Indian horse-owners. The Indians always did their horse-stealing on foot, and there was no good reason why white men should not imitate their example.
“That sounds very well, cap’n,” said Sam Glass, when Benning had presented this view of the subject, “and it will be easy enough to do, no doubt, purvided that we ken find the Injuns; but we may hev to tramp many a mile, afore we came up on a village.”
“No trouble about that, boy,” replied Pap Byers. “We’ll find Injuns enough, I warrant ye. The only p’int is, that we must be cautions and quiet, and I’d like to know how this yere Irishman’s tongue is to be kep’ still.”
“Is it me tongue that you’re spa’kin’ of?” snapped Dennis Regan. “Sure, me tongue is as ready as your hand, any day.”