“I have enemies, friends,” he said.
“White Antelope had no enemies,” Yellow Bird replied.
“The Indian woman had no enemies,” said Running Rabbit.
“It is our friends who steal our horses”—Bear Chief’s voice was even and unemotional.
Their behavior puzzled Smith. They seemed now to be in no hurry. Without gibes or jeers, they sat as if waiting for something or somebody. What was it? He asked himself the question over and over again. They listened with interest to the stories of his prowess and adventures. He flattered them collectively and individually, and they responded sometimes in praise as fulsome as has own. All the knowledge, the tact, the wit, of which he was possessed, he used to gain time. If only he could hold them until the sun rose. But why had they brought him there? With all his adroitness and subtlety, he could get no inkling of their intentions. The suspense got on Smith’s nerves, though he gave no outward sign. The first gray light of morning came, and still they waited. The east flamed.
“It will be hot to-day,” said Running Rabbit. “The sky is red.”
Then the sun showed itself, glowing like a red-hot stove-lid shoved above the horizon.
In silence they watched the coming day.
“This limestone draws the heat,” said Smith, and he laid aside his coat. “But it suits me. I hates to be chilly.”
Bear Chief stood up, and they all arose.