CHAPTER XIX.

ON THE WAY.

Percy Vere was much interested in what Oneotah had told him, and he gently detained her.

“I do not wonder that you love this strange man,” he answered. “I am more and more impressed by the evidences of his power that I have seen. Let him pass on—we can overtake him—you know the way?”

“Oh, yes; these scenes are familiar to me. I have often been here before.”

“Yonder cliff is a favorite haunt of the Prophet’s, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“You have been in this Mystic Cavern, as you call it?” continued Percy, pursuing his inquiries, curiously.

“Repeatedly.”

“And have you never feared the demons who inhabit it?”

Oneotah glanced cautiously before her, as if seeking for the Prophet’s tall form, but he had disappeared in the gathering gloom. It was evident that she feared to speak of the cavern and its mysteries in his hearing.

Percy understood the look, and answered to it.

“He is out of sight—he can not hear you,” he said. “It appears that you fear this man as well as love him.”

“No, I do not fear him; but I would do nothing to displease him.”

“Is he easily angered?”

“Oh, no; he has never uttered an angry word to me yet.”

Percy smiled.

“It may be because you have been so submissive to his wishes,” he rejoined. “You appear to me to have a very amiable temper.”

Oneotah laughed, in her musical manner.

“That is why the demons never seek to injure me, I suppose,” she answered.

“Have you ever seen any of these demons?” he cried, quickly.

“Yes—one.”

“The Black Fiend that appeared to us that night upon the cliff?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not seek to injure you?”

“No; why should he?”

Percy shrugged his shoulders; he had a shrewd suspicion of the cause of this immunity, but he did not reveal that suspicion to her.

“True; it must be a fiend indeed that would seek to injure you,” he said.

She turned suddenly upon him.

“You like me?” she exclaimed, vivaciously.

“Very much!”

She gave him her hand with frank impulsiveness, crying:

“And I like you!”

“But not so well as Multuomah?” he rejoined, roguishly.

“Multuomah is a great chief!” she replied, sententiously.

“And an Indian of taste!” he added, impressively.

His words bewildered her, for she did not catch his meaning.

“Of taste?” she repeated, in a questioning manner.

“Decidedly!”

“What makes you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

She was puzzled again.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, simply.

He smiled, but, instead of explaining himself, changed the conversation abruptly by asking her:

“You have also seen the White Spirit?”

“I have.”

“She is very beautiful!”

“The red-men think her so.”

“She has proved a great help to Smoholler in gaining his ascendancy over the minds of the Indians.”

“Yes.”

“You do not fear _her_?”

“Oh, no; she never injures any one.”

“I thought not.”

Cute now came up with them.

“What are you stopping here for?” he asked.

“Waiting for you to come up,” answered Percy.

“Thank you. I came as fast as I could. I’m short-winded. Phew!”

Cute drew in a long breath, as if preparing for a fresh start.

“That’s because you are so fat!” cried Percy, laughingly.

“Fat be blowed!” retorted Cute, indignantly.

“That’s what I said—you are blown, because you are so fat.”

“Funny, ain’t you? Well, I’d rather be fat than a Slim Jim, like you and the Anteloper. Look at his horns! I’ve often heard of taking a horn, but I wouldn’t like to take one of them horns.”

Oneotah lowered her head and made a playful butt at Cute, who dodged her nimbly, and got behind Percy, crying out:

“None of that! If you are well-bred, don’t be a butter!”

Oneotah laughed merrily at Cute’s apprehension.

“That’s right, my jolly red boy,” continued the fat youth. “And now, Anteloper, don’t you think you had better be a sloper? The Prophet has invited us to a lunch, where we can ‘sup full of horrors’—a nice little hash of goblins, spooks, demons, ghosts and spirits.” Then he began to sing:

“‘Red spirits and white, black spirits and gray, Mingle, mingle, you that mingle may!’”

“Hush!” cried Percy. “You’ll scare the owls!”

“The what?”

“The owls!”

“Let ’em scare! Who’s afraid? If with my _howls_ I scare the owls, let ’em decamp to some adjacent shade!”

“Will you be quiet? I wish to ask Oneotah a few questions before we enter the Mystic Cavern.”

Cute clutched Percy suddenly by the arm.

“Will you take a fool’s advice?” he asked.

“Well, if I take yours I don’t very well see how I can help it,” answered Percy quietly.

“Not bad for you, Percy; but fools sometimes hit the truth.”

“If you think you can hit it, strike out.”

“I was going to suggest that, instead of going into this Mystic Cave, it would be better to cave in on going.”

“Pshaw! are you afraid?”

“Not of mortal, red or white, but when it comes to Black Spooks—fellows that fight with their own shinbones, I beg to be excused.”

“Nonsense! no harm will come to us.”

Cute shook his head, dubiously.

“Oh, won’t there?” he cried. “There aren’t any Accident Tickets issued on this line yet.”

“The Prophet will protect you!” exclaimed Oneotah.

“Then he will be a profit to us if he does. He’s as smart as a steel-trap, I know, is Old Smo’, so let us go, where glory, or any thing else, awaits us.”

“Do be quiet,” insisted Percy. “Oneotah was giving me some valuable information when you interrupted us. She says Smoholler is her father.”

“I wish I was farther—farther from this!” responded the incorrigible Cute. “It’s a wise child that knows its own father, and Antelope may be mistaken. You know what Glyndon thinks; and if she’s a she, and belongs to he, how can the other matter be?”

“That is just what I wish to ascertain.”

“Fire away then, my boy.”

Oneotah did not hear these words. Percy advanced to her, as she had drawn a little apart while the boys held this whispered conference.

“How long have you been with Smoholler, Oneotah?” asked Percy.

“Twelve moons,” she answered.

“Good Lord! do you Indian chaps have twelve moons?” cried Cute. “Why, we white fellows only have one!”

“The Indians count time by moons,” explained Percy. “Their moons are the same as our months.”

“That’s for a ‘twelve month and a day,’ as I have heard the old song say. How moony, and how loony!”