Across the neck of ground appeared the old Dacotah chief, a number of warriors following with shrill yelps. He came to where Crawford stood, and a flash of exultation was in his eyes, as he touched the red object at his belt.
“We have taught the Stone Men a lesson,” he said. “My brother is well? Good. Did I not say that his medicine would bring him here?”
Crawford laughed. “You old rascal! I half believe you were right about it. You have left scouts to watch the enemy?”
“Yes. The Stone Men are making camp and cooking meat. Red Bull is with them.”
Crawford nodded. He knew that nothing short of death itself would stop Maclish.
CHAPTER VII
“AN ARCHER DREW BOW AT A VENTURE”
Late that night, while the thin crescent of a new moon hung in the sky, touching the twisted limbs of the pine tree above him with faint silver radiance, Crawford wakened to a lightly humming voice. It was Frontin who sat beside him at the tip of the promontory, and gaily voiced words which were half-sardonic, half-sad, fitting them to a tune of Old France which ran lightly and merrily enough—
“God made a little crooked tree
And set it on the shore,
A thing of wondrous sanctity