“Jest that,” smiled the affable stranger.
“But why?” questioned the doubting lad.
“Listen, younker! them purty feathers ain’t worn fer decoration mainly. Each one means a scalp that the chief has took in battle.”
“Oh, I think I see,” put in Tom thoughtfully. “A few words from this chief, who has taken many scalps, carries more weight than all the flowery oratory of a man who has no such fighting record to back up his talk.”
“You hit the bull’s-eye, boy. That’s jest it.”
The Indian council dragged along, and soon the listening twins began to tire of the seemingly endless round of speeches, not a word of which could they understand.
“They’re getting nowhere fast,” complained Ben.
“Oh, the big chiefs ’ll chew this thing over fer hours,” remarked the friendly frontiersman. “That’s Injun naitcher. Ther ain’t bigger wind-bags in the world than some o’ these here Injun chiefs. They run off at the mouth by the hour.”
“Well, Ben, if that’s the case,” declared Tom, “let’s drop back to the village for a bite to eat, and then return later.”
Accordingly, the boys left the savage chieftains to their long-winded harangues, and went down river to the fort. About mid-afternoon, they heard that the youths had finally been brought before the wise men and informed that they would be permitted to fight as proposed, the winner to take the maiden as his intended wife.