“Right here, chief,” chirped Tommy, “and ready at sight of your beaming, dusky mug to execute a war dance, a ghost dance, a waltz, or an Irish jig of joy. Tell us, how doth it happen thou art gallivanting around these parts?”
“Shangowah, my grandfather, sent a message requesting me to meet him here,” explained the youthful redskin.
Old Joe having released Dick, nodded his head slowly.
“The long trail,” he said, “has led Shangowah’s feet near to the place where he must lie down for the big sleep that has no end. Shangowah him mighty near polished off, finished up, cooked, done for. He think he like once more to put him blinkers on Wind-that-roars-in-the-night, his grandson; so he get white man to write talking letter that say for young Joe to come.”
“Now, Crowfoot,” protested Dick, “I’ve heard you sing this same song before, but I notice that you invariably come out of these spells with colors flying.”
Nevertheless, in his heart Merriwell was pained to note positive signs of declining strength and vitality in the old redskin.
“Mebbe sometime old Joe he make bluff ’bout it,” confessed Shangowah; “but no can keep up bluff always. Bimeby, pretty soon, time come when bluff is real thing, and old man he have to croak. He no think when he get paleface friend to write talking letter that mebbe he meet you, too, Injun Heart. He much happy.”
“Come up onto the veranda out of this sun,” urged Dick. “There are some chairs yonder, and you can rest while we talk a little.”
“Sun him feel good to old Crowfoot,” mumbled the bowed and aged chief. “Blood get thin in old man’s body; sun he warm it up some. All same, Crowfoot like little powwow with Injun Heart and friends.”
Pride would not permit him to allow Dick to assist him up the steps. With an effort he mounted them in a certain slow and dignified manner.