A growl of discontent greeted these words.
“Why not kill the pale-face whelps?” cried one of the braves.
The chief stamped angrily upon the ground.
“They are mine, I tell you,” he answered, in peremptory tones. “They are the faces I have seen in my visions—and the White Spirit says they are to live.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PROPHET-CHIEF.
The savages were loth to be cheated of their prey.
“Six of our braves have fallen,” replied the warrior who had before spoken, “and the gray hunter has escaped. The blood of our brothers calls for vengeance! Death to the cubs of the pale-face!”
He raised his tomahawk to smite Percy Cute.
“Monedo! Monedo!” exclaimed the chief, in that shrill tone which contrasted strongly with the deep guttural of the Indian. “Palsy the arm that strikes against the will of Smoholler!”
The warrior’s threatening arm dropped, and he retreated apprehensively from the form of the prostrate boy.