* Literal meaning—"They-all-stay-together."
"Who are they!" I asked.
We were not yet within earshot of them as they clustered on the bank.
"Chatanskah often told Tawannears of them when I first dwelt with Corlaer in his teepee years ago. They are the scourge of the plains. They have no home, but go wherever they please, hunting and killing. Their hands are raised against all other people's. They have no allies, no brothers. They make no treaties. They never receive ambassadors. They are ravaging one year in the Spanish countries in the South, or matching lances with the Apache; and the year after they strike the Dakota or the Cheyenne. They are like the wolf-pack. They never abandon their prey, and you must kill all before they abandon an attack. Their favorite food is human flesh."
I shuddered, eying askance the bestial visages lowering on the bank, faces as depraved, if more intelligent, than those of the Awataba.
"And we are to bargain with these!" I exclaimed.
"We must, brother. They are great warriors. If we yield to them they will think we fear them, and they will pursue us. Our horses would be bait enough. No, we have come so far, and we cannot draw back. We must carry it with a high hand. Be bold. Scowl at them. Show contempt. We have them at our mercy, but it is not convenient for us to attack. That is our position."
We kicked our horses up the slope of the bank, and drew rein in the midst of the half-circle of Tonkawa warriors. Not a weapon was displayed, for that would have been a gross violation of Indian etiquette, and even these freebooters respected the fundamental precepts of the race to some extent. But we were subtly made to feel that every man there itched to twist his knife in our hearts.
I found myself drawing back my lips from my teeth in an animalistic snarl of reciprocal hatred as Tawannears thrust out his two hands with the forefingers crossed at right angles, the figure in the universal sign-language for the desire to trade. When a young warrior tried to crowd his horse closer I touched Sunkawakan-kedeshka with my heel, and the spotted stallion shoved the offender off the bank. The youngster scrambled up again, a murderous look on his face, but the Tonkawa chief, a broad-shouldered giant of a man, wearing the hide cuirass and a feathered helmet, spat out a guttural order which curbed the tide of hatred.
"What do you want?" he demanded roughly in the broken jargon of Comanche, which passed for the trade language of the plains.