Awkwardly dismounting from his rawbone horse, he stared around the circle and with one hand held behind him tantalizingly said:
“Got something. Sha’n’t let you peek at it.”
“Let’s see it, Baby,” coaxed Runner, his tone such as he might use in pleading with a child.
“No!” And Baby shook his head stubbornly and grinned mischievously.
“’Lasses on mush. Heaps of it, Baby,” bribed Davis.
Baby became interested. Davis repeated his offer. Slowly Baby drew from behind him the scalp of a white man. It was long, dark brown hair, burned to a yellowish white at the ends by the sun.
“That’s Ben Kirby’s hair!” gasped Scott, staring in horror at the exhibit. Then aside, “Good God, he ain’t took to killing whites, has he?”
“Where’d you git it, Baby?” coaxed Hacker. “Davis will give you a big bowl of mush and ’lasses.”
“That man had it,” proudly informed Baby, and he fished from the bosom of his hunting-shirt a hank of coarse black hair.
“A Shawnee sculp or I’m a flying-squirrel!” yelled Runner. “Don’t you understand it, men? Some dog of a Shawnee rubbed out Kirby. His hair’s been off his head these six weeks. No wonder he ain’t come in to help you folks to fort.