"Not much better--it is a child of the Mandans who fell into my hands.
Better to kill her at once--a goodly scalp that!" With the words the
man pointed to his captive's long and beautiful hair.
He continued: "But Bent Horn says, No. Let The Stone take her into her
keeping. So it is then--Timid Hare, shall draw water for you and wait
upon you and your son."
Black Bull, who had followed close upon his mother, stood staring at
the captive with wild eyes. The poor fellow was small-witted, as well
as deformed. He was eighteen years old, yet he had no more
understanding than a small child. His face was not cruel like his
mother's, however. His eyes were sad and spoke of a longing for
something--but what that something was even Black Bull himself did not
understand.
As the little girl looked at him a tiny hope leaped up in her heart.
"He will not be unkind to me, at any rate," she decided. "And I am
sorry for him that he has such a mother."
Following close upon this thought came another. It was of White
Mink--dear, kind White Mink who was perhaps at this very moment weeping
over the loss of her little Swift Fawn.
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