He was finally bound hand and foot with thongs of hide. This was no more than he expected, still he did not submit without a fierce but ineffectual struggle.
When it was done his captors looked on him with respect—they did not laugh at him nor evince any anger. It was impossible for him to read any clue in their stolid faces what was going forward.
Half a dozen of them carried him up the bank and laid him at the door of a teepee. Presently Watusk passed by. Ambrose so violently demanded an explanation that the Indian was forced to stop. He said, still without meeting Ambrose's eye:
"Myengeen say you kill Tom Moosa. You got to take our law."
"It's a lie!" cried Ambrose, suffocating with indignation.
Watusk shrugged and disappeared. It was useless for Ambrose to shout at any of the others. He fumed in silence. The Indians gave his dangerous eyes a wide berth.
Meanwhile the camp was plunged into a babel of confusion by the order to move.
Boys ran here and there catching the horses, the teepees came down on the run, and the squaws frantically to pack their household gear. Infants and dogs infected with a common excitement outvied each other in screaming and barking.
Ambrose saw only the beginning of the preparations. A horse was brought to where he lay, and the six men whom he was beginning to recognize as his particular guard unbound his ankles and lifted him into the saddle.
They never dared lay hands on him except in concert—he took what comfort he could out of that tribute to his prowess. They tied his bound wrists to the saddle-horn, and also tied his ankles under the horse's belly, leaving just play enough for him to use the stirrups.