"Oh, here are the Indians," she gasped, as they strode into the grotesque grouping. "I am afraid, Mr. Ermine—I know it is silly."
"What are you afraid of, Miss Searles?"
"I do not know; they look at me so!" And she gave a most delicious little shiver.
"You can't blame them for that; they're not made of wood." But this lost its force amid her peripatetic reflections.
"That's Broken-Shoe; that's White-Robe; that's Batailleur—oh, well, you don't care what their names are; you probably will not see them again."
"They are more imposing when mounted and dashing over the plains, I assure you. At a distance, one misses the details which rather obtrude here," ventured Butler.
"Very well; I prefer them where I am quite sure they will not dash. I very much prefer them sitting down quietly—such fearful-looking faces. Oh my, they should be kept in cages like the animals in the Zoo. And do you have to fight such people, Mr. Butler?"
"We do," replied the officer, lighting a cigarette. This point of view was new and amusing.
One of the Indians approached the party. Ermine spoke to him in a loud, guttural, carrying voice, so different from his quiet use of English, that Miss Searles fairly jumped. The change of voice was like an explosion.
"Go back to your robe, brother; the white squaw is afraid of you—go back, I say!"