I am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie Indian. Many of them speak Spanish, or its North Mexican _patois_. They have opportunities of learning it from the New Mexican traders, but better--_from their captives_. "_Si cavallero_! I speak Spanish. What wishes the warrior with the red-hand upon his shield?" "The pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such a question? What wishes the Red-Hand? Ha, ha, ha! The scalps of the white men--their scalps and lives--that is the will of the Arapaho chief!" The speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a scornful laugh. The savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty character: he glories in the terror of his name! With such a monster, it seems idle to bold parley. In the end, it will be only to fight, and if defeated, to die. But the drowning man cannot restrain himself from catching even at a straw. "Arapaho! We are not your enemies! Why should you desire to take our lives? We are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers." "Red brothers! ha, ha, ha! Tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare! The proud Arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a pale-face. Red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his enemies! Behold their scalps upon his shield! Ugh! See the fresh trophies upon his spear! Count them! There are six! There will be ten. Before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking on the mound will hang from the spears of the Arapahoes!" I could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable. I made no reply. "Dogs!" fiercely vociferated the savage, "come down, and deliver up your arms!" "An' our scalps too, I s'pose," muttered the Yankee. "Neo, certingly not, at your price: I don't sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes to. 'Twouldn't pay nohow. Lookee yeer, old red gloves!" continued he in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart--"this heer o' mine air vallable, do ee see? It air a rare colour, an' a putty colour. It 'ud look jest the thing on thet shield o' yourn; but 'tain't there yet, not by a long chalk; an' I kalklate ef ye want the skin o' my head, ye'll have to trot up an' take it." "Ugh!" ejaculated the Indian with an impatient gesture. "The yellow squaw is not worth the words of a chief. His scalp is not for the shield of a warrior. It will be given to the dogs of our tribe. It will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie." "Ain't partickler abeout what 'ee do wi' 't--thet is, efter ye've got it. Don't ye wish 'ee may get it? eh?"