Carl made no reply, but sat there on his mound and saw the squawman and his wife go down to the dancing-ground; but he was all awake now, and ready to improve the first chance to seek safety in flight. But the trouble was, the two women were as watchful as ever. When he went into the tepee to get his meals or to go to sleep, his keepers were close at his heels. To save his life he could not get an opportunity to escape one moment from their vigilant eyes. The days wore on and at last the dance was completed, and with a long-drawn whoop the braves separated and all of them started for their tepees, some of them so nearly overcome with exhaustion that they crawled on their hands and knees. The squawman came also, and he had to be helped by his wife. He went into the tepee and laid down, and Carl, feeling somewhat discouraged, followed him.
“That is one chance gone,” said he, looking daggers at the two women who had watched him so closely. “Now, when will I get another?”
An hour passed in this way and the camp was fast asleep—all except the woman who sat by the door, and who, save when she was relieved by the other woman, kept watch over him while he slept. Suddenly there was a commotion in the camp, and no one knew what had occasioned it. A wild whoop, followed by others at shorter intervals, rang out on the still air, bringing the squawman to his feet and sending him out at the door to listen. It turned out to be a courier of some kind, and he was detailing some news to the camp. The squawman listened intently, and then came back with the face of a demon.
CHAPTER XIII.
The End of Sitting Bull.
“What is up?” demanded Carl, who raised himself on his elbow and looked at the man in surprise. He thought, from the look of his face, that something dreadful had happened.
“Young man,” replied Harding, coming close to the place where the scout lay, hissing out the words from between his clenched teeth and shaking both his brawny fists under his nose, “the English language is not strong enough to make me do this subject justice. You are at the end of your rope, and I would not give two cents for your life. Nobody knows, except the few who were with me when you were captured, that I have got you a prisoner here in the camp; but if one of those warriors chooses to split on me, you would be food for the wolves in less than half an hour.”
“Well, can’t you tell me what is the matter?” exclaimed Carl, growing more surprised. “I haven’t been doing anything.”
“No, but your kind have. Sitting Bull is murdered—shot through the body by Bull Head and Red Tomahawk, who were men that he has led into action more than once.”
A wonderful thrill went all through Carl Preston as he listened to these words. Sitting Bull was dead! How often had he wished for that very thing to happen, but he had never dreamed that it would be done by some of his own men. The squawman watched him closely to see how he took the news, but Carl never showed in his countenance what his feelings were. He could have listened to the worst news that any boy ever heard, but he wouldn’t show it in his face.