“Look over there,” cried MacLean. “What do you think of that?”
It was a splendid spectacle, and staged superbly. For background, the sharp-edged mountains flushing to pinks and purples against a one-hued sky; the river-growth of the old channel uniting them, blotting out miles of desert, into a flat scene. On the opposite bank of the New River, five hundred strong, lined up formidably, their faces grotesque and ferocious with paint, were the seven tribes. The sun’s rays glinted up from their fire-arms, shot-guns, revolvers, into a motley of defiance! Cocopahs, with streaming hair, blanketed Navajos, short-haired Pimas, those in front reining in their silent pinto ponies, and all motionless, silent in that early morning light.
“What does it mean?” whispered MacLean. Rickard did not answer. He had one nauseous instant, as he looked toward Innes’ tent. Then he noticed a movement in the throng; he saw it was the pressing of newcomers toward the front of the brilliant mass. Brown naked chests gleamed with wet paint. Black shirts, striped with white and yellow and red, made a strange serpent effect. Ropes of beads weighted down their shoulders; ribbons streamed from their arms.
The barbaric spectacle stood immovable. The stir came from the near bank. The camp was rising. From each tent, a face thrust out casually, stayed to watch, startled. The unsettled condition of the days past had prepared the stage for some climax; the surprise loomed savage and threatening.
MacLean was watching Rickard’s face. The manager had drawn back into the shadow of his tent. He expected to see them wheel and ride out of camp; this then their ultimatum. He did not fear worse trouble, now that nauseous half-second was over; they had too much to lose; there was no one to organize, to mobilize. Still, they were Indians—he was trying to make out their faces; the whites, surprised—the squads divided, at the levee, up at the Crossing!
MacLean had turned to watch the Indians; he heard a chuckle. Rickard broke into laughter.
“See, the white horse, no, in front—”
“By jove,” MacLean slapped his thigh. “Coronel! They had me buffaloed. What do you think it is?”
Rickard stepped out into the wash of morning air, and waved a solemn salute across the river. Gravely, it was returned by Coronel.
“What does it mean?” demanded MacLean.