“Yes. I can’t understand why Murray let us go so easily.”
“I fear we have not seen the last of le Murrai Noir yet,” was the sober reply. “If he had abused us, cursed us, threatened us, I should have less fear. I do not like his silence, the way he allowed us to go without raising a hand against us.”
“The Indians seem friendly. Perhaps they won’t let him touch us.”
“That may be. They may be afraid that any trouble with white men will bring vengeance upon them. Yet I do not like the looks of that young chief. And he did not offer us food. That is a bad sign, Walter. If he had invited us to eat, to smoke the calumet, but he did not.” Louis shook his head doubtfully.
“I can’t imagine,” Walter pondered, “why Murray went out and left us, and then sent that man after us again.”
Louis was equally puzzled. “It is all very strange. Le Murrai sent him for us. Surely that was what he meant. Then, when we reached the camp, another man came and took us away from him. And when we were leaving, the first fellow came again and wished us to go back.”
“Perhaps Murray wanted to see us alone, and the chief interfered,” Walter suggested.
“So he sent for us again? But we saw le Murrai going to join in the dance. The dance will take a long time, all night perhaps, and he is the chief figure in it I think.”
“He certainly looked as if he was. Louis, is there really any white blood in Murray at all?”
“That is another strange thing,” returned the troubled Louis. “It is strange that those Indians should speak of him as a hat-wearer, a white man. Rather he seems one of themselves.”