“The white man does many things better than the Indian.” Running Rabbit went on coiling the rope.
He motioned Smith to follow, and led the way on foot.
“I dotes on these moonlight picnics,” said Smith sardonically, as he panted up the steep hills, his high-heeled boots clattering among the rocks in contrast to the silent footsteps of the Indian’s moccasined feet.
Running Rabbit stopped where the limestone hill had cracked, leaving a crevice wide at the top and shallowing at the bottom.
“This is a good place for a white man who coils a rope so well, to rest,” he said, and seated himself near the edge of the crevice, motioning Smith to be seated also.
“Or for white men who shoot old Indians in the back to think about what they have done.” Yellow Bird joined them.
“Or for smart thieves to tell where they left their stolen horses.” Bear Chief dropped cross-legged near them.
“Or for those whose forked tongue talks love to two women at once to use it for himself.” The voice was sneering.
“Smith, you’re up against it!” the prisoner said to himself.
As the others came up the hill, they enlarged the half-circle which now faced him. Recovering himself, he eyed them indifferently, one by one.