When the commanding officer at last rose, he was in no mood to mince matters. He used few words, but they were forcible. He asked the interpreter to repeat them precisely.
They had their effect. While Matthews was doing this, the colonel did not glance away from the council-fire, yet he knew that in the semicircle there was genuine consternation. Grunts, startled, angry, threatening, ran up and down the line. Those warriors named for possible execution alone were silent.
Presently, one of the others spoke. "If we tell you where to go, how do we know the white chief will not fall upon the winter camp of our brothers as Custer, The Long-Hair, fell upon Black Kettle's?"
"I am not going with the pony soldiers," Matthews hastened to say. "Across the Muddy Water, where the road passes, is a wide piece of land which has been stolen from me."
One of the four condemned glanced up. It was Lame Foot. "By The Plow-Woman?" he asked.
"By her father. I shall stay until that land is mine again. One of you must ask your chief that he give up the pale-face squaws."
Canada John answered him. "A brave can but take the words of the white chief. That is not well. One of a double tongue must go."
"The white chief has but one," said Matthews, and tapped his own chest.
A silence followed.
"The journey begins when the sun is little," he added, and sat down.