“But this is not a fresh scalp. It is old, and the warriors will know that they are imposed upon.”
“I will tell them that I have dried it, and they will believe me.”
“They always believe you. I now believe that the young man will be safe. Do you think that he took that scalp—that he killed the man to whom it belonged?”
“Why not?”
“He looks too good to take scalps.”
“I am afraid that it is because of his looks that Dove-eye wishes to save his life.”
“Listen, my father! The warriors are coming!”
When the question of the gray scalp was brought up, Wilder felt a very lively interest in the conversation. The possession of that article seemed to him, at the moment, of more importance than the preservation of his life. He was about to speak to his red friends and to demand the restoration of the trophy, when the announcement that the warriors were coming compelled him to hold his peace.
The announcement was immediately followed by the arrival of a large party of Indians, whom he could easily hear as they entered the lodge, talking volubly in their own tongue. A curtain of skins was let fall over the opening of the apartment in which he lay, and he was left in total darkness.
Darkness was favorable to meditation, and he soon convinced himself that it was for the best to let the scalp go. If the hair of Paul Robinette could save his own, that was probably the best use it could be put to. Besides, if the Indians should discover him, they would take his own scalp and that of the old trader, and he would be none the better off for having kept it.