—I marry a Blackfoot woman. But I remember I am half white.
"Yes, it is much better for you to die fighting, m'sieu. The white blood in me says I must give you that chance."
"Then in God's mercy cut these cords," panted Lander, beginning a useless struggle.
"What would you have? Death now? Wait a bit. I must leave the medicine-tent and go to the fire and show myself and then go to my lodge. They will think I have turned in for the night.
"Then I will come back and reach from under the flap of the tent and cut your arms free. I can not reach your legs, but you say you have a knife. Use it, and make for the hole through the hills. I fear you will not get far, but knowing what I know, you will have much to thank Baptiste Gardepied for when you go down fighting."
"Do not fail me," mumbled Lander.
The breed no longer talked and Lander knew the medicine-lodge was empty. He closed his eyes and fell to thinking of Susette. Then came thoughts of Papa Clair, his friend; of Jim Bridger, generous and kind.
