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"Not" said the youth, throwing back his head with a haughty movement. "No Piegan." "Ah, no, of course. Onawata's son, eh?" The lad grunted. "What do you want?" inquired Cameron. The young man stood silent, evidently finding speech difficult. "Eagle Feather," at length he said, "Little Thunder plenty Piegan run much cattle."
The boy waved his hand toward the hills surrounding the little town. "Here," said Cameron, emptying his tobacco pouch into the boy's hand. "I will tell my squaw that Onawata's son is not ungrateful, that he remembered her kindness and has paid it back to me." For the first time a smile broke on the grave face of the Indian. He took Cameron's hand, laid it upon his own heart, and then on Cameron's.
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