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Updated: June 16, 2025
He will be here before the shadows of the trees grow much longer." "Whitewing?" exclaimed Softswan, with a gleam of pleasure in her bright black eyes. "Just so. The prairie chief has come back to us, and is now a preacher."
"Sometimes I find it rather hard to believe it," muttered Little Tim. Bounding Bull did not speak, but the stern look of his brow showed that he shared the feelings of the little hunter. Big Tim was also silent but he glanced at Softswan, and she, as if in reply to his thoughts, said, "He doeth all things well."
"Many pale-faces are hampered by their squaws, and cannot go fast," retorted the chief, by which reply he meant to insinuate that the few drops of white blood in the veins of the cheeky one might yet come through an experience to which a pure Indian would scorn to submit. "But," continued the chief, after a pause to let the stab take full effect, "but Softswan is well known.
It was deliberately chosen as being less deadly than the others, the charge being a few slugs or clippings of lead, which were not so apt to kill as rifle bullets; for Softswan, as her name might suggest was gentle of spirit, and was influenced by none of that thirst for blood and revenge which characterised some of her Indian relatives.
Softswan laid her finger on the trigger, but carefully, for the advancing runner might be her husband. Oh why did he not shout to warn her? The poor girl trembled a little, despite her self-restraint, as she thought of the danger and the necessity for immediate action. Suddenly the bushes on her left moved, and a man, pushing them aside, peeped from among them.
"I sincerely hope," said the wounded man, with a look of anxiety, "that the plan you speak of does not involve the slaughter of these men." "It does not" replied Big Tim, "though if it did, it would be serving them right, for they would slaughter you and me ay, and even Softswan there if they could lay hold of us." "Is it too much to ask the son of my old friend to let me know what his plans are?
Big Tim's style of speech was in accordance with his half-caste nature sometimes flowing in channels of slightly poetic imagery, like that of his Indian mother; at other times dropping into the very matter-of-fact style of his white sire. "Leetil Tim vill be glad," said Softswan. "Ay, daddy will be pleased. By the way, I wonder what keeps him out so long?
Softswan was not banished from the council chamber, as if unworthy even to listen to the discussions of the "lords of creation," and no pipe of peace was smoked as a preliminary, but a brief, earnest prayer for guidance was put up by the missionary to the Lord of hosts, and subjects more weighty than are usually broached in the councils of savages were discussed.
It looked like a mere accident my finding the track which leads to it near the spot where I fell, but it is the Lord's doing. Tell me, Softswan, have you never heard Whitewing and Little Tim speak of the pale-face missionary the Preacher, they used to call me?" "Yes, yes, oftin," answered the girl eagerly. "Me tinks it bees you. Me very glad, an' Leetil Tim he "
Softswan neither smiled nor looked pleased at the compliment intended in these words. "Me loves not to draw bloods," she said gravely, with a pensive look on the ground. "Don't let that disturb you, soft one," said her husband, with a quiet laugh. "By the way he jumped after it I guess he has got no more harm than if you'd gin him an overdose o' physic.
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