"Etzoogah, his son, the pretty boy yonder," she answered.
Following her glance, Jack had no difficulty in picking out the one she meant. He was a handsome, slender boy, a year or so younger than Davy. Where the other children were in rags, he was wearing an expensive wide-brimmed hat from the store, a clean blue gingham shirt, new trousers, and around his waist a gay red sash. Moreover, he had the wilful, petulant look of the spoiled child; plainly the apple of the old man's eye.
"Get me a horse and a rope bridle," Jack whispered to Mary.
There were several horses picketed within the square, handy to their owners' uses, and Mary made for the nearest.
"You take my horse?" Etzeeah demanded, scowling.
"It is for your son to ride," Jack said with a grim smile. "Etzoogah, come here!" he commanded.
The boy approached with an awed, scared air. Etzeeah started to his side, but Jack coolly separated them by moving his horse between. Mary returned with the other horse, and the boy fell into her hands. She smiled at him reassuringly.
"Get on," she said. "Nobody's going to hurt you. Come with us to our camp. Davy is there."
All the children knew Mary and Davy. Moreover, there were always good things to eat in a white man's camp. The boy was well pleased to obey. Etzeeah shrilly commanded him to dismount, but the apple of his eye merely laughed at him. The old man began to break. His eyes dulled with anxiety; his hands trembled.
"What you do with my boy?" he demanded. "We shoot if you take him."