“What luck?” I asked as I jumped to the floor.
“Just bein’ neighborly,” he growled as he rapidly loaded. “Shot them two arrers off the next roof.”
Suddenly the savage howling ceased; nor were there any more fire-arrows. Then the Englishman began shouting. He was once more calling us. I answered and wriggled the knife-blade between the logs. Sure of my attention he loudly informed us: “Dale passes the word for us to stop fighting. Says he’s going to save us.”
“To the devil with Dale!” snarled Cousin, showing his teeth like a wolf.
“He’s going out to talk with ’em,” added the Englishman.
“Lord! What a fool!” lamented Cousin.
“He’s going now,” continued the Englishman.
I darted to Cousin’s side and peered out. We heard the bar drop from the end cabin; then Dale came into view, walking with a swagger toward the concealed savages. In one hand he held up a string of white wampum. And as he slowly advanced he shouted in the Shawnee language:
“Do my brothers fire on their brother? Do they harm their brother’s friends? Does the Pack-Horse-Man ask his red brothers to be kind only to have his words fall on dead ears? I bring you belts. My daughter in the cabin also brings belts to the Shawnees and Mingos and the Delawares.”
“Let our white brother come close,” called a deep guttural voice.