Of a necessity, there must be a number of braves left around the corral to guard against another messenger venturing forth, and these would wish to witness the sport. Did it take place upon the hillside, they could do so as well as those within the corral.
The hill, too, was beyond reach of rifle-shot, and so the bright light could not serve to guide an avenging bullet. For these reasons had the hill been selected by the astute chief of the Arapahoes.
Then the form of the old guide was lifted from the ground by several brawny warriors, and borne toward the rudely-improvised stake. Tom’s heart sunk anew, for he hoped to be able to break away from his captors, during the walk to the hill. But Wapashaw knew too well the nature of the man he had to deal with, to run any unnecessary risks.
Maxwell uttered a bitter curse of rage as he realized this. But a savage leer upon the countenance of Wapashaw revealed the delight his chagrin gave the rascal, and Tom smothered his emotion, until he gave no outward sign of feeling his position, though his teeth were firmly clenched and his breath came hard and strong.
In a few minutes the hill was gained, and the old scout was placed with his back against the firmly-planted stake. Not until a strong lariat was twined around both his body and the post, were his feet freed from their bonds, his hands still remaining tied.
“Ugh!” grunted Wapashaw, as he stood ordering the proceeding, addressing Maxwell. “Three Scalps no ’feared now? Holler plenty loud, by-’m-by, when fire burns. T’ink so?”
“Not much, chief. You’ll only git fooled ef you ’xpect me to holler. Fire cain’t burn me—it cain’t. I’m proof ag’in’ lead an’ steel, too. Didn’t know that afore, did ye? Why you mought stan’ thar an’ shoot your rifle plum ag’in’ my face, an’ the bullit ’d jest bounce back ag’in, like it hed hit a rock. Your hatchet ’ed break jest like a piece o’ ice, ef you was to hit me, hard. It would so!” earnestly responded Tom. “S’pose you try it an’ see, now, jest fer fun.”
Wapashaw gazed steadily at the old guide for a moment, but then a grim smile swept athwart his countenance. He divined the motive that actuated his captive, but was far from willing to gratify him.
“S’pose you t’ink Arapahoe chief he big fool, talk like dat? S’pose shoot—hit ’um wid tom’hawk, den ’um go dead, quick. Den no git burn. Three Scalps brave, plenty cunning, but so Wapashaw. No git fooled dis time,” and the chief chuckled sardonically.
“Ah, git out! Think ye’re some, don’t ye? Durned smart, you be—whar the hide’s rubbed off. Fool nothin’—cain’t spile a rotten aigg, you durned gumphead, you,” retorted Tom, with an angry glare in his eyes.