All eyes were turned at once toward the savages. Before stationary, they were now prancing and capering about, spreading like a bird’s wing, then folding again, ever prancing and curveting. Only the chief, Red-Knife, remained at rest. After seeing his brother Ishmaelites wheel and curve about him for some time, he dismounted, cast his weapons on the ground and slowly stalked toward the barricade.
“He’s a fool!” whispered Burt to Sam, as he drew within rifle-range. “Fust thing he’ll know, he’ll find hisself dead, if ever Simpson or t’other draws bead on him.”
“He’s going to palaver,” remarked Jack.
The savage drew quite close, until he halted within long pistol-range. Then, spreading his arms and throwing back his head, he cried out:
“Are the pale-faces women, that they seek to hide? Are they coyotes, that they burrow when danger comes? Are they fools, that they know not that Red-Knife is the chief of the plains—that he is not to be foiled?”
He spoke in the Spanish tongue with a good tone and accent. Long intercourse with the Mexicans had improved his tongue.
He received no answer; he went on.
“Are the pale-faces dumb, that they do not reply? Ugh! they are dogs.”
“He thinks we are greasers—he does, by Cimarron Jack, the god of war! Well, let him discover his mistake—he will do so before long,” remarked Jack.
“Le’s pepper him, Jack,” said the guide.