“No!” stormed Davy, stoutly. “None.”
The Indians all were armed with bows and arrows. Suddenly the old Indian with Tall Bull strung his bow like lightning, fitted arrow to string, and Davy found the steel head quivering on taut string within six inches of his chest. The black eyes of the Indian glared into his, the swarthy face was fierce with a scowl of hatred.
Davy did not dare to move; even if he had had a gun or pistol he could not have used it. The arrow would have been through him before he could pull trigger. There he must sit, waiting for the string to be released. His flesh in front of the arrow point shrank and stung, as if already the keen point had driven into it. If the Indian’s finger should slip—!
Half a minute passed; it seemed to Davy like an hour. Tall Bull spoke again.
[“Two; give two,” he urged meaningly. “Take rest.”]
[“TWO; GIVE TWO,” HE URGED, MEANINGLY. “TAKE REST”]
Davy shook his head. He felt white and queer, but his mind was made up.
“No,” he answered, trying to speak naturally, but suspecting that his voice was rather shaky. “None.”
The arrow head was still at his breast; the Indian’s bow was still stretched taut until it quivered with the strain; the Indian’s eyes glared, his face scowled. Davy did not glance aside. He was afraid to.