"My white brothers speak strange words, or it may be that the mind of Thunder-maker still sleeps——"
"Rot!" interrupted Arnold brusquely. "The Thunder-maker's mind is wide enough awake. What is the use of lying to us? We know that you put those snakes into our teepee, and we heard you call them back when you found that your purposes had failed."
For answer, the Indian raised one of the blankets and disclosed a basket against which he had been leaning during his pretended sleep. He raised the lid, looked in, and signed the Englishmen to do likewise.
"See? On their bed of grass my little papooses also sleep," he said, lifting the basket so as to show the tangle of green bodies that it contained.
"We can gain nothing by further talking," remarked Arnold to his companion in an undertone. "The fellow has done us this time, and we have nothing to support us if we accuse him before Mighty Hand."
"That's true enough," returned Holden. "He is best man this time."
The Indian quietly closed the lid and again covered the basket with a blanket, after which he looked up with a cunning and triumphant leer.
"White men will eat; then—Mighty Hand take trail for Pleasant Valley!"
How he seemed to gloat over the thought of the terrible fate that awaited his enemies! Brave men though they were, they could not but feel a sense of shrinking at the picture that this man's attitude and tone conjured up. There are times when anticipations of pleasure seem to be rendered more alluring by reason of description. It is also so with expectancy of pain. Words may paint that picture in crimson colours so that our revulsion is intensified before we see it.
"We will gain nothing by remaining here," said Arnold abruptly, as he turned from the tent, whence he was followed by his companion. And as the Englishmen departed they heard the Indian saying aloud, purposely to be overheard—