The sun was setting when Whitewing and his friend rode into Clearvale.
The entrance to the valley was narrow, and for a short distance the
road, or Indian track, wound among groups of trees and bushes which
effectually concealed the village from their sight.
At this point in the ride Little Tim began to recover from the surprise
at his own stupidity which had for so long a period of time reduced him
to silence. Riding up alongside of Whitewing, who was a little in
advance of the party, still bearing his mother in his arms, he accosted
him thus--
"I say, Whitewing, the longer I know you, the more of a puzzle you are
to me. I thowt I'd got about at the bottom o' all yer notions an' ways
by this time, but I find that I'm mistaken."
As no question was asked, the red man deemed no reply needful, but the
faintest symptom of a smile told the trapper that his remark was
understood and appreciated.
"One thing that throws me off the scent," continued Little Tim, "is the
way you Injins have got o' holdin' yer tongues, so that a feller can't
make out what yer minds are after. Why don't you speak? why ain't you
more commoonicative?"
"The children of the prairie think that wisdom lies in silence,"
answered Whitewing gravely. "They leave it to their women and white
brothers to chatter out all their minds."
"Humph! The children o' the prairie ain't complimentary to their white
brothers," returned the trapper. "Mayhap yer right. Some of us do talk
a leetle too much. It's a way we've got o' lettin' off the steam. I'm
afeard I'd bust sometimes if I didn't let my feelin's off through my
mouth. But your silent ways are apt to lead fellers off on wrong tracks
when there's no need to. Didn't I think, now, that you was after a
young woman as ye meant to take for a squaw--and after all it turned out
to be your mother!"
"My white brother sometimes makes mistakes," quietly remarked the
Indian.
"True; but your white brother wouldn't have made the mistake if ye had
told him who it was you were after when ye set off like a mad grizzly
wi' its pups in danger. Didn't I go tearin' after you neck and crop as
if I was a boy o' sixteen, in the belief that I was helpin' ye in a love
affair?"
"It _was_ a love affair," said the Indian quietly.
"True, but not the sort o' thing that I thowt it was."
"Would you have refused to help me if you had known better?" demanded
Whitewing somewhat sharply.
"Nay, I won't say that," returned Tim, "for I hold that a woman's a
woman, be she old or young, pretty or ugly, an' I'd scorn the man as
would refuse to help her in trouble; besides, as the wrinkled old
critter _is_ your mother, I've got a sneakin' sort o' fondness for her;
but if I'd only known, a deal o' what they call romance would ha' bin
took out o' the little spree."
"Then it is well that my brother did not know."