“The white dogs come,” he said, in a fierce tone, “and the heart of a chief is big in his bosom. They shall die without knowledge.”
“Who are they?” demanded Tom.
“They are white and they are not the friends of Jackwood the son of Red-Bird. Where is your gun, my brother?”
“I lost it last night,” replied Tom, a little embarrassed. “Let me look out and see what white men come.”
He advanced to the edge of the woods and looked out, and could detect a white party moving hastily across the plain. Foremost among them was a man whom he had known well some years before, Cooney Joe, and behind him came Captain Melton and his gallant men, and it flashed through the mind of Tom Bantry that they were in pursuit of Dick Garrett. His heart stood still, for a backward glance showed him fifty stout Sacs, armed to the teeth, lying under the bushes waiting for the coming of the hated white men. Twenty-four hours ago Tom Bantry would have delighted in this, but now he was changed, and racked his brains for ways and means to acquaint them with the ambush before them, without destruction to himself.
Napope waved his hand, and, as if by magic, every warrior disappeared, and a stillness like that of death fell upon the scene. The whites came in rapidly, unsuspicious of danger, and passed through the first bushes, when they were surprised to hear a sudden crash and a yell of surprise and anger. The crash came from Tom Bantry, who had managed to fall down with a great noise, at the same time giving the yell which startled the white rangers.
“Tree, boys!” yelled Cooney Joe. “Tree and fight. Injins thar, by the big horn spoon.”
The men who followed Cooney Joe were Indian-fighters of the first class, and the order had scarcely been given when every man was sheltered by a tree and had his rifle ready for action. This was not done a moment too soon, for the feathers of the savages began to show above the bushes, and several shots were fired, until a commanding voice shouted to the warriors to hold their fire.
“What do the white men seek?” cried Napope. “They have been beaten once; must we beat them again?”
“That’s Napope,” cried Cooney Joe. “I know the old cuss, and he kin fight, if he is an Injin; but we’ll lick him out of his moccasins. Say, Injin, you’d better clear the way; you ain’t got the major to fight now.”