la-wau-wau was a mighty warrior, and as such commanded. With measured
deliberation he spoke in the royal tongue.

"Tla-wau-wau has seen many winters, and his hair is very gray. Many
times has he watched the grass spring up and grow brown and wither,
and the snows come and go, and those things have brought him wisdom,
and what he has seen of life and death has given him strong thoughts.
It is not well to leap headlong into a muddy stream, lest there be
rocks under the black water. Shall we call the tribes to meet us here
on the island of council? When they are all gathered together they are
more numerous than we. Is it wise to call those that are stronger than
ourselves into our wigwam, when their hearts are bitter against us?
Who knows what plots they might lay, or how suddenly they might fall
on us at night or in the day when we were unprepared? Can we trust
them? Does not the Klickitat's name mean 'he that steals horses'? The
Yakima would smoke the peace-pipe with the knife that was to stab you
hid under his blanket. The Wasco's heart is a lie, and his tongue is a
trap.

"No, let us wait. The tribes talk great swelling words now and their
hearts are hot, but if we wait, the fire will die down and the words
grow small. Then we can have a council and be knit together again. Let
us wait till another winter has come and gone; then let us meet in
council, and the tribes will listen.

"Tla-wau-wau says, 'wait, and all will be well.'"

His earnest, emphatic words ended, the chief took his seat and resumed
his former look of stolid indifference. A moment before he had been
all animation, every glance and gesture eloquent with meaning; now he
sat seemingly impassive and unconcerned.

There was another pause. It was so still that the rustling of the
boughs overhead was startlingly distinct. Saving the restless glitter
of black eyes, it was a tableau of stoicism. Then another spoke,
advising caution, setting forth the danger of plunging into a contest
with the allies. Speaker followed speaker in the same strain.

As they uttered the words counselling delay, the glance of the
war-chief grew ever brighter, and his grip upon the bow on which he
leaned grew harder. But the cold face did not relax a muscle. At
length rose Mishlah the Cougar, chief of the Mollalies. His was one of
the most singular faces there. His tangled hair fell around a
sinister, bestial countenance, all scarred and seamed by wounds
received in battle. His