Maxwell had an object in view in thus chaffing with his captor. He felt assured now that Buenos Ayres had indeed succeeded in passing the cordon in safety, and that he was even then far away in search of help.
Thus, every moment of time gained was invaluable to his comrades. If he could delay an attack until daylight, he believed that the train would be saved, as the Indians would scarcely brave an assault in broad daytime, knowing the great loss they must suffer in such a case.
Hoping to learn something definite regarding the red-skins’ plans, Tom keenly strained his ears to catch the words of those who were collected around the chief, at but a few yards from where stood the captive scout. His partial knowledge of the dialect stood him in good stead here.
He heard his own name—or the sobriquet given him for a deed of peculiar daring some years before, Three Scalps—coupled together with the emigrant train; and then another name met his ear. That of Dusky Dick.
His suspicious, then, were only too true. This desperate attack was indeed the work of the Traitor Guide. These savages were under his orders; then where was he?
But soon other interests riveted his attention upon the savages, once more. They were debating upon him—settling the mode and time of his death.
Despite his hardihood and great bravery, the old guide shuddered as he caught the words of the chief. To die—and by such a death—was horrible!
“His hands are red with the blood of the Arapahoe—he must die! But he is a great brave—his name is Three Scalps. Do you know how he gained that name? Listen! Four Arapahoe braves attacked him upon the prairie and shot his horse: he was alone. They were good braves and skillful warriors, but they were no match for him. He killed and took the scalps of three—the other fled, with a bullet through his breast. He gained the lodges of his people, and told his story; then he died. We called the white warrior Three Scalps.
“He is a great brave, but he must die. He has fallen into our power at last—but the death of a man awaits him. He shall die by fire—the wolves must not pick his bones. Wapashaw has spoken!”
“The chief is wise,” slowly uttered one of the elder braves. “But does he not forget? What will the white chief say? He bade us capture this man and keep him so that he might slay him with his own hand.”