One splendid looking savage, by features evidently a half-breed, attracted the attention of Frank Lawrence.
“That looks like a chief,” said he, in the same low tone as his comrade.
“Heap much chief,” spoke Running Elk. “Him Weatherford.”
This name, dreaded along the entire border, caused a thrill to run through Jack Davis.
“The Red Warrior!” He stared at the famous leader of the Creeks, who sat like a grimly carven statue within the fire-lit circle. “What in the world can he be doing here?”
Frank’s eyes left Weatherford and curiously roved over the remainder of the band; two who sat side by side, and whose commanding personality and different head-dress made them stand out from the others, now claimed his notice.
“They must be out of the ordinary, too,” said he. “They look different, somehow.”
Jack’s eyes went to the two.
“They are not Creeks,” said he, for he was well acquainted with the head-dress of that tribe. “They are strangers.”
“Shawnee,” spoke Running Elk. “One great chief. Other much medicine.”