“Aw, shet yore dang head 'n' git yore rifles workin'!” Applehead blurted. “This yere ain't no time fer kiddin', 'n' I'm tellin' yuh straight. What's them fellers acrost the Fryin'-pan think they're tryin' t' do? luck le's you'n me make a few remarks over that way, 'n' leave the boys t' do some gun-talk with these here babies behind us. Dang it, if I knowed of a better place 'n' what this is fer holdin' 'em off, I'd say make a run fer it. But I don't 'n' that's fact. Yuh musta sprung the trap 'fore yuh got inside, 'cause they shore aimed t' occupy this nest uh rocks theirselves, with you fellers down there in the Fryin'-pan where they could git at yuh.
“Thar's one of 'em up on the rim-rock—see 'im?—standin' thar, by granny, like he was darin' somebody t' cut loose! Here, Lite, you spill some lead up thar. We'll learn 'im t' act up smart—”
“Hey, hold on!” Luck grabbed Lite's arm as he was raising his rifle for a close shot at the fellow. “Don't shoot! Don't you see? Thaf's the peace-sign he's making!”
“Well, now, dang it, he better be makin' peace-signs!” growled Applehead querulously, and sat down heavily on a shelf of the rock. “'Cause Lite, here, shore woulda tuk an ear off'n him in another minute, now I'm tellin' ye!”
CHAPTER XIX. PEACE TALK
Across the Frying-pan an Indian stood boldly out upon a jutting point of rock and raised a hand in the sweeping upward motion of the peace-sign. The questing bullets that came seeking for bone and flesh among the rocks and bushes came no more when the signal was passed from those who saw to those farther back who could not see the figure silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the sky. A moment he stood, made the sign again, and waited.
“That's peace-sign, sure as you're born!” Luck cried breathlessly, and went scrambling through the bushes to where he might stand in the open, on the very rim of the basin. Applehead yelled to him to come back and not make a dang fool of himself, but luck gave no heed to the warning. He stood out in the blazing sunshine and gave the peace-sign in reply.
On the-rim rock the Indian stood motionless while he might have taken three or four breaths. Then with his hand he gave the sign for “pow-wow” and waited again.
Luck, his pulse thrilling at the once familiar gesture which his tribal “father,” old chief Big Turkey, used to give when he came stalking up for his daily confab with his adopted son, gave back the sign with a hand that trembled noticeably. Whereupon the Indian on the farther rim turned and began dignifiedly to climb through a rift in the ledge down into the Frying-pan.