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Updated: May 2, 2025
"My brothers, a little child has spoken to you. He tells you, his hair is not grey, but frozen that the grass will not grow where a Pale-face has died. Does he know the colour of the blood of a Big-knife? No! I know he does not; he has never seen it. What Dahcotah, besides Mahtoree, has ever struck a Pale-face? Not one. But Mahtoree must be silent. Every Teton will shut his ears when he speaks.
When he did approach nigh enough to converse with facility, it was with a singular mixture of haughtiness and of distrust. "It is far to the village of the Loups," he said, stretching his arm in a direction contrary to that in which, the trapper well knew, the tribe dwelt, "and the road is crooked. What has the Big-knife to say?"
"The Wahcondah made me like these you see waiting for a Dahcotah judgment; but fair and foul has coloured me darker than the skin of a fox. What of that! Though the bark is ragged and riven, the heart of the tree is sound." "My brother is a Big-knife! Let him turn his face towards the setting sun, and open his eyes. Does he see the salt lake beyond the mountains?"
The trapper laughed in his silent fashion, and muttered a few words to himself before he addressed the chief "Let the Dahcotah open his ears very wide," he said 'that big words may have room to enter. His friend the Big-knife comes with an empty hand, and he says that the Teton must fill it." "Wagh! Mahtoree is a rich chief. He is master of the prairies." "He must give the dark-hair."
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