As Swanson caught sight of the council-fire, the stern faces surrounding it, and the grave air of his captors, his guilty heart sank within him, and, trembling in every joint, he was hardly able to totter to the place assigned him. The Indians noted his condition with scornful eyes, and Eagle Claw, advancing from the rest, said:
"How now, does the coyote tremble because he is asked to join the council with his brethren?"
The mocking words brought Swanson's pluck back again, and drawing himself to his full height he answered:
"You red devil! Don't brother me. Drop that beating around the bush and out with the truth."
"'Tis well. A liar is a curse to his people. The Cherokees are men of truth and have but a single tongue."
"The Cherokees are the biggest rascals in the Territory, the meanest horse-thieves, and couldn't tell the truth to save their rascally necks from the halter," said Swanson.
The Indian's eyes flashed ominously at these words, and rising his voice, he said:
"My brother has a long tongue. It might be well if it were cut out; but we know he is joking, for is he not a Cherokee himself?"
"Not I. You can't make a mustang out of a broken-down broncho and you can't make a white man out of an Indian."
"But you took one of the fairest of our young maidens to your tepee, and—"