“Does Lone-Elk know of Big Buffalo?” the foremost of the Delawares inquired. “The Seneca left the village to walk beside the water. Now he comes back from a different direction. Does he know of Big Buffalo? Know that Big Buffalo is dead in the bushes that the water runs among? Little Wolf is here. Little Wolf saw Big Buffalo dead—found the Buffalo dead among the bushes by the water—found Big Buffalo killed.”
CHAPTER II—A SENTENCE OF DEATH—ACCUSED OF WITCHCRAFT
“Big Buffalo would have nothing to do with the Harvest Festival as Lone-Elk planned it and the Seneca has killed him,” was in substance the report which quickly passed among the Delawares when Little Wolf had come running to the village, telling of the discovery he had made—telling how he had found the dead body among the brush and reeds as he went in search of an arrow idly sent flying from his bow, after the exercises in the Council House were over.
The finger pointed at him as he had come up, though hastily pushed aside, was enough to tell Lone-Elk that he was suspected, even if no word had been spoken.
“Is it said that Lone-Elk killed Big Buffalo?” the Seneca demanded of the Indian who told to him the news.
“Big Buffalo would not come into the Council House for the Harvest Thanksgiving that was planned by Lone-Elk,” said another of the Delawares. “It is this that they say.”
The scowl on the Seneca’s face became more bitter and contemptuous. With a look of disdain he left the group, fast increasing in numbers about him, and walked with head held high directly to the lodge of Captain Pipe.
The finding of Big Buffalo dead had put a sudden damper on the day’s festivities. The squaws discontinued their preparations for the feast, and while the young bucks and warriors gathered about to discuss the mysterious death of one of the best known, though by no means best liked, of their number, children clung about their mothers’ knees as the latter also flocked from lodge to lodge to talk of the strange discovery.
There were few outward signs of excitement or emotion,—that was a thing the Indians rarely showed. But in a cold, impassive way every person in the village was keenly interested. Never had there been so disturbing a thing at a time of festivity before.
Many eyes turned toward Lone-Elk as he strode toward Captain Pipe’s lodge and entered the hut. Even as he did so two warriors, still in holiday garb, came carrying the body of Big Buffalo between them. Without a word they bore the corpse to the home it had always known in life, where lived the dead man’s mother—an old, old woman now, who loudly lamented the death of her son as she sat on the ground just within the tumble-down bark lodge.