“That’ll be Black Hoof himself,” excitedly muttered Cousin, darting his gaze over the valley in search of the stone or log which hid the great chief from view.
“Don’t shoot! They’ll butcher him if you do!” I warned.
“They’ll worse’n butcher him if I don’t,” gritted Cousin. Yet he held his fire, for the excellent reason he could see nothing to shoot at.
“Tell your people not to fire,” again called Black Hoof’s powerful voice.
Dale faced the cabins and waved his white wampum, crying:
“I am saving your lives. You men in the lower cabin, throw down your arms!”
“Like thunder!” grunted Cousin.
“He’s fairly among them!” I gasped.
Dale had come to a stop and was turning his head and glancing from one point to another on the ground as he talked. His voice had its old confident ring, and there was a slight smile on his lips as he rehearsed his friendship for the red people and reminded them how often he visited their villages and smoked their pipes.
When he ceased Black Hoof called out: