“How do you know, Bill?” Ben queried.
“’Cause they alus mark ’emselves with white clay, an’ ornament ’emselves with leaves, when they dance.”
Sure enough! The boys now perceived that the glistening, naked bodies of the capering dancers displayed no paint except white, transverse streaks, with which they were covered. Also, around their heads, were green chaplets of leaves. And their legs, and even their guns—which all brandished before them—were wreathed in the same manner.
“Is that their war-dance, Bill?” whispered Tom Gordon.
“Yep, an’ it’d chill a man’s blood, wouldn’t it?”
The three lay in tense silence for some moments, as they witnessed the ferocious posturings of the Sacs.
“Ah!” said Ben Gordon presently. “See who comes!”
The flap of one of the tepees was thrown back, and a tall, coppery figure emerged into the daylight. The hidden watchers recognized him immediately. It was the Prairie Wolf, the sinister young Sac chief.
“Must be the Wolf’s camp,” muttered Bill Brown; and the two boys nodded agreement.
The three watchers remained for a short time more, as the bronze-skinned, eagle-faced warriors continued their wild, barbaric dancing.