The Apache evaluated the rest of the company. As was true of his own party, these men were much the same age—young and vigorous. And it was also apparent that Hulagur held a position of some importance among them—if he were not their chief.
After a last resounding roll on the drum, the shaman thrust the sticks into his girdle and came down to the fire at the center of the camp. He was taller than his fellows, pole thin under his robes, his face narrow, clean-shaven, with brows arched by nature to give him an unchanging expression of scepticism. He strode along, his tinkling collection of charms providing him with a not unmusical accompaniment, and came to stand directly before Travis, eying him carefully.
Travis copied his silence in what was close to a duel of wills. There was that in the shaman's narrowed green eyes which suggested that if Hulagur did in fact lead these fighting men, he had an advisor of determination and intelligence behind him.
"This is Menlik." Kaydessa did not push past the men to the fireside, but her voice carried.
Hulagur growled at his sister, but his admonition made no impression on her, and she replied in as hot a tone. The shaman's hand went up, silencing both of them.
"You are—who?" Like Kaydessa, Menlik spoke a heavily accented English.
"I am Travis Fox, of the Apaches."
"The Apaches," the shaman repeated. "You are of the West, the American West, then."
"You know much, man of spirit talk."
"One remembers. At times one remembers," Menlik answered almost absently. "How does an Apache find his way across the stars?"