But he had said to give up all—even life. He had given his own life for the stolen white women. What he preached he had followed. "Greater love," he had said, "hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
It was a queer saying. If a brave went down when a tribe met another in battle, then a friend of the dead took a life for that life. To give a life—it was different, and foolish! Was it not even cowardly for one to expect another to die for him? And yet——
He found himself upon his feet, listening. Across the stockade he saw the ruddy glow-worms of the scattered pipes dancing in the dark. But a moment later, when blinding flashes lit up the huge pen, the hostages were sitting as before, their faces lowered moodily.
Still he listened. And it came again, from the direction of the river—the long, sad, cooing call of a dove.
CHAPTER XXXIV
FIRE AND ESCAPE
With the third mourning of the dove, a figure left the lodge of Canada John and shuffled to the sliding-panel, where it knocked. In tardy answer, the wicket was pushed aside a little and a lantern was held up.
"Hey, Charley!" said a friendly voice. A white face peered into a red one, noting the uneven bang and the handkerchief tied over the head like a squaw's.