Beckwourth was now held in such esteem that he was appointed the leader of the Dog Soldiers. His men of that society daily invited him to smoke and talk, and many were the damsel or wife of another who gave him a flirting look or a small gift as he went about his business. One in particular was persistent; a pretty thing, but a mere girl.
“Be gone, child,” he finally told her one day. “I tire of your attention.”
“I wish to marry you, Shoots Good in the Dark,” she said.
“Marry me!” he said. “I already have a wife. And look at you, not more than fifteen winters old.”
“You are a great warrior,” she said. “I wish only to be the wife of a great warrior. A great warrior must have many wives.”
“You are as pretty as a flower,” he told her. “You will someday deserve a great warrior for a husba
