Dismounting from his mustang, Red-Knife stalked toward the whites for a few rods; then he cried:
“The Red-Knife is a brave—he seeks not to war with dogs and cowards. The sounds of war come from the south; there will the Comanche go to war with braves—he leaves pale-face dogs to their own cowardly deeds. The Red-Knife has spoken.”
Cimarron Jack sprung out of the wagon into the open plain. The chief recognized him.
“Dog from the bitter river!” he cried, with an insulting gesture; “coward of a coyote, squaw, sneak, the Red-Knife laughs at you.”
“I’m Cimarron Jack, the grizzly-tamer! I’m the man that killed cock-robin! I’m the jumping wild-cat from Bitter Creek! I’m the man that can run faster ’n a jack-rabbit, swear more than a camp-cook, neigh more than an elephant, and kill thieving Indians like the small-pox. I’m the Grand Mogul of Tartary, and I’m the cock of the walk.”
The chief turned, stalked back to his steed, mounted, and rode away with his band toward the south; clustered together, riding swiftly.
The men came out from the wagons, and, standing on the plain, watched the Indians as they swiftly receded, wondering.
It was no sham, no strategy; they were actually going; and, in the course of an hour, were lost in the distance.
“I say, Simpson, what does all this mean?” inquired Mr. Wheeler.
“Dunno!”