“I can keep the Indians away,” cried Dale. “When I offer them my belts, they’ll be glad to receive them. You send them a few trade-belts in place of the bloody ax and they’ll be your friends, too.”
“Bah!” roared Hughes, too disgusted to talk.
“What does the white Injun say?” yelled one of the young men.
He had barely put the query before John Ward stalked through the fort door and stood at Dale’s elbow. Speaking slowly and stressing his words in that jerky fashion that marks an Indian’s speech in English, he said:
“The trader is right. I have been a prisoner among Indians for many years. I know their minds. Dale can go anywhere among Indians where he has been before, and no hand will be lifted against him.”
“You’re a liar!” passionately cried Hughes, his hand creeping to his belt.
Ward folded his arms across his deep chest and stared in silence at Hughes for nearly a minute; then slowly said:
“No Indian ever called me that. It’s a man of my own race that uses the word to me.”
“And a mighty cheap sample of his race,” boomed Dale, his heavy face convulsed with rage. “A cheap killer, who must strike from behind! Faugh! It’s creatures like you——” With an animal screech Hughes jumped for him. Before we could seize the infuriated man Ward’s arm was thrust across his chest and with the rigidity of a bar of iron stopped the assault. Before Hughes could pull knife or ax from his belt we hustled him into the background. His three friends scowled ferociously but offered no interference. It was obvious that the settlers as a body would not tolerate any attack on Dale.
Inarticulate with rage, Hughes beckoned for Hacker, Scott and Runner to follow him. A few rods away he halted and called out: