“No; White Slayer is false to me. Why did he attempt to carry the Pearl of my heart from her cabin home?” angrily replied the white man, whom the Indians called Gray Chief. A flush stole into the red face of the young chief at the charge. For a moment he was silent, but then said earnestly: “The heart of the White Slayer is not here in his bosom, but with the paleface maiden on the hill. She is the dewdrop that refreshes his life, yet she turns her eyes from the White Slayer, though he is the chief of his tribe.” “All true, chief; but did you expect to win the girl by force?” “Could the White Slayer use his arms toward the Pearl of the Hills?” indignantly said the Indian. “Yet you sent five of your braves to take my Pearl captive.” “Would the Gray Chief trifle with White Slayer, or does he speak with a false tongue?” said the chief. Glancing into the Indian’s face, the old man read there only truth, and felt that he had not ordered the violence done to Pearl. Then in a few words he told the young chief all that had occurred. With a surprised frown White Slayer heard him through. Then he said: “The young men who thus acted toward the Pearl of the Hills were squaw braves, and they deserved their fate. White Slayer knows who has done this wrong to the Pearl, and he shall make his knife drink blood for it; but, Gray Chief, the palefaces must not come into our lands. They must be swept back upon the prairies.” The white man smiled, for he was well pleased with these words. “That is my opinion, too,” he declared, “and I am glad to see you are of the same mind. Now listen to me: Scouts have brought news that there are two bands of palefaces marching into our hills, and I wish you to assemble your warriors and prepare them for the warpath. “Do not act in haste,” he urged, “for those men come here to remain, take my word for it. What we want to do is to bide our time, and so lay our plans that not one paleface shall ever tread the prairie sward again.” “The Gray Chief hates his people,” quietly said the chief. “Hate! I abhor, I curse them; and, White Slayer, when the scalp of the last man of these bands hangs upon yonder war pole, I promise you that my Pearl shall gladden your wigwam with her presence.” The eyes of White Slayer glittered with joy, but he said quietly: “It shall be as the Gray Chief says. In one moon there shall be five hundred warriors upon the warpath of the palefaces. White Slayer has said it.” “It pleases me to hear you say it, chief; and let me tell you, that a great foe to your people is in yonder valley--a man before whom your stoutest warriors tremble. I saw him.” “The Sioux warriors never fly from a foe; they know no fear,” proudly returned the chief. “And yet I have seen Sioux braves, who, when a score in number, dared not face that man.” “Who is this great brave?” asked the chief, with considerable interest. “Buffalo Bill, the scout!”