"What? We are not traders. You can see we carry only weapons. We have been on a mission of vengeance." His voice swelled boastfully. "The Kansas slew a small hunting-party of our people many moons ago. Three sleeps back we burned their village, and filled our bellies with their blood. Their scalps hang on our lances."
It was true. The Tonkawa lances were broidered from midway of their shafts to the head with wisps of human hair of all lengths.
Tawannears nodded tranquilly.
"That is well," he said. "It is the fashion of my band to slay all who cross our trail. If we had not something else in view we should slay you."
The Tonkawa leaned forward in his pad-saddle, jaw menacing.
"Be careful or we test your boast!" he cried.
"You dare not," returned Tawannears casually.
And by the very gentleness with which he said it he carried conviction. The Tonkawa looked from him to the waving branches of the wood on the other side of the stream. It might conceal anything. There were horses grazing here and there, and at frequent intervals a figure showed between the trunks, never for long enough to supply opportunity for identification.
"You say you come to trade," objected the Tonkawa. "I have told you we have nothing to trade—except scalps."
He grinned the insinuation that we were the kind of warriors who were careless how we added to our tale of trophies. Tawannears ignored the gibe.