It was not to last long. Hardly had the flames begun to crackle among the twigs, when Fred Wilder, fully armed, strode into the throng, kicked away the burning poles, stamped out the fire, and took his stand near the prisoners, gazing defiantly at the crowd of savages.
The Blackfeet were astonished at his audacity. Some of them laid their hands upon their weapons; but all drew back, as if bewildered, and wondering what might happen next. After a few moments, Good Ax, the head chief, stepped forward and addressed the intruder.
“Why does Silverspur seek to interfere with his brothers? Has he forgotten that when he became a Blackfoot, he ceased to be a white man?”
“My heart is white, and always will be,” fiercely replied Wilder. “I can not stand by and see men of my own race murdered. What have these white men done to you, that you wish to burn them?”
“We caught them stealing our horses.”
“They had a right to try to recover the property which you had taken from them.”
“But the white men are the enemies of the Blackfeet.”
“Say, rather, that, the Blackfeet are the enemies of the white men, who have never mistreated you, and have never fought you except when you have compelled them to do so. Look at these men! One of them, as you can see, is not able to speak. Would you slay a man who has been stricken by the Great Spirit? I say that they shall not be burned while I live, and I know well that more than one of you will fall before I die.”
It is said that a wild beast will shrink from the steady glance of a brave man. So did the savages quail before the fearless eye and undaunted demeanor of Fred Wilder. His audacity seemed almost supernatural, and made them fear that he might have something to back him which they could not even guess at.