The clamour ceased instantly. The men hung back, and their heads bent with shame, that is, all heads but that of Thunder-maker. His face betokened no shame. Nay, greater fury than ever was depicted, though he was silenced before the anger of his chief. But it was only for a little while that he was thus disconcerted, for soon he resumed—though now he spoke with humble fawning—
"It is death in the heart of Thunder-maker when the eyes of Mighty Hand shoot their looks of fire. But—Thunder-maker speak true. Has he not made great medicine these many suns? Did he not bring the thunder to prove his great medicine? Has he not many times driven the fever from the camp, till it fled over the prairie like a coyote driven with sticks and dogs? Huh! many wonders has he done, and—more will he do. He will do great medicine this day. He will show if the fiery totem has called in vain for vengeance."
Thus speaking, Thunder-maker dived a hand into the bosom of his shirt and drew out a bundle of dirty linen. The chief had lowered his arms, so that the Englishmen could now see the Indian as he laughed and held up the bundle triumphantly above his head.
"Great medicine!" he exclaimed, fixing his eyes upon the white men. "Great medicine! Look! See! Listen!"
They looked, and as they looked they saw the linen move, as if something inside were struggling to be free, and at the same time they heard a sound like the sudden springing of an old-time policeman's rattle.
"Rattlesnakes!" exclaimed Arnold under his breath.
Thunder-maker laughed when he saw that the sound had been recognised.
"Come! Come, my children!" he cried, as he turned his face upwards. "Come, my little son—come, my little daughter!"
Then he shook the knot of the bundle, and out from the aperture crept two grey-green bodies—a pair of twisting, writhing somethings that caused the onlookers to shudder and the Medicine Man to laugh, as he repeated carelessly—
"Come, my little papooses! You will speak great medicine in the ears of Thunder-maker!"