"Big medicine men and magicians," said White Buffalo. "Make much magic."
Dave looked at his old Indian friend and saw, to his astonishment, that White Buffalo was ill at ease, if not actually nervous. Had he been alone, it is likely that he would have turned on his heel and hurried away.
"What be they a-saying?" demanded Barringford, after listening to the chant. "I never heard sech gibberish in my life afore."
"Much magic," answered White Buffalo. "Magic make the Indians strong to fight their white enemies."
"Oh, so that's it, eh? Do they believe in it, White Buffalo?"
"Magic is magic," returned the old chief simply.
"Does it mean digging up the war hatchet?"
"White Buffalo cannot tell, for he is not in their secrets. But if the hatchet should be dug up—ha!"
White Buffalo stopped short, for the flap of one of the wigwams had opened and a tall Indian had stepped outside. The red man was naked to the waist and painted with rings and blotches of several colors. On his head he carried something of a crown of black feathers with brass ornaments dangling over each ear. As he came out, those around the fire set up a yell of welcome.
"Who is it?" questioned Dave, in a whisper.