“The star fights for me. Will you take us with you or not?”
“Our brother Wandering Star shall go with us, and his friend.”
“This is a red bull who never gives up,” and Crawford stirred the senseless Maclish with his toe. “He will lead the Stone Men after us.”
“Let my brother drink his blood,” said Standing Bull.
“The time for that has not come. Later on I shall kill him, but first I shall put my mark upon him, so that all men may know that he belongs to me. If he does follow us, the Dacotah will capture him, then I shall take him and kill him.”
Crawford did not scrutinize the brown faces as he said this, or he might have noted that the chiefs showed no great delight in his prediction. He took out his knife and stooped over Maclish. With deliberation, he slit the skin on that sweating, agonized forehead; when he had finished, the Scot was branded with a five-pointed star. It bled copiously.
“He has lived well, the bleeding will give him strength,” said Frontin cynically. “You mistake, cap’n, not to put the knife into his heart. He promised to crop your ears.”
“Let him live with this brand on him,” said Crawford. “I shall find him again.”
Frontin shrugged. The two red men rose and bestirred themselves. From among the rocks came a third warrior, bearing a pack of dried meat. When the three had obtained snowshoes and warbags, they took the short forest snowshoes belonging to the two dead Sauteurs, and gave these to their white companions. Frontin retrieved the muskets he had left at the shore.
“Come, my brothers!” said Standing Bull. “Even if they see us go, the Stone Men will not follow us—until after they have found their chief.”