“Is that the Witch Doctor?” Donald asked, in a low tone as he bent down.
The brave nodded his head. Perhaps he wondered why these paleface boys did not exhibit more evidences of respect and fear when the wonderful fakir was passing. Perhaps he also secretly envied them their courage, too; for no Zuni brave dared to refrain from making that salaam when coming upon the man of magic, who could make the very rocks sing, and whose incantations frightened off the angel of death sometimes, when all conditions were favorable.
“Where is he going now?” continued Donald, just as though he may have been entertaining a suspicion as to the truth, and wished to substantiate the same.
The rattlesnake hunter lowered his voice so that the dreaded Witch Doctor might not hear him speaking; and this was what Billie heard him say in fairly good English at that:
“He go make much talk with Great
Manitou—come back bimeby—much must do ’fore can lead rattlesnake dance. Ugh!”
With that, as though fearful that he may have said too much, the brave scurried away, his head bent low in the endeavor to locate still another of the reptiles, the presence of which was so vital to the carrying out of the great annual festival and its strange ceremonial dance.
The boys exchanged looks.
“Do you believe that, Adrian?” asked Donald, as he looked after the Witch Doctor, still close by, though receding from the spot where the three Broncho Rider Boys sat in their saddles.
“It sounds on a par with what you heard told at the mine, and at home among the punchers who’ve been over this way,” answered the other, quietly. “And sure that young buck ought to know when the Zuni people expect their wonderful medicine man to hold daily talks with the Great Spirit in the mountain.”