“Prairie Wolf!” muttered Bright Star tensely.
“The Wolf!” echoed Ben and Tom, almost with one voice.
The sinister, young Sac chief sat where the full light of the fire fell upon his dark face, and in the luminous glow he looked very cruel and very powerful. Evidently the spear wound had been rather slight, and he would speedily recover from the experience.
The other Indians, grouped closely about, were apparently members of his band. The blazing fire threw out much heat, and the half-naked savages reclined near to it, enjoying the warmth. The boys surmised that they had arrived only a short time before, for there were evidences that the fire had been only recently built. The Prairie Wolf was talking to the group, and judging from the deference paid to him by the rest, it was plain to see that he was the leader of the pack.
The boys, now that they had recognized the Wolf, were extremely anxious to hear what he was saying, and they gradually crept even closer. They were soon within fifteen or twenty yards of the fire, lying among the screen of thick brushes. There they had fulsome reward for their skill and daring; for, from this point of vantage, they were able to hear quite clearly. They did not catch all the words, but they caught enough for Bright Star to make a connected story, as he translated the Indian jargon in the lowest of whispers to Ben and Tom.
The bulk of the talking was being done by the Prairie Wolf and a scrawny, thin-faced Indian, with a yellow kerchief tied around his head and a faded green blanket wrapped around his bony body.
Young Bright Star gave a perceptible start, when he caught sight of this skinny savage in the green blanket.
“Ne-a-pope!” he whispered agitatedly.
“Who?” queried Tom.
“Ne-a-pope!”