"I must talk 'th my braves fust," and Grable stepped beyond view of those below, his face corrugated.
The consultation was long and animated. Edith listened to their words, though not comprehending the harsh dialect, and closely watched the expression of each speaker. Her heart sunk deeply as the braves followed each other. A new hope, faint though it was, had sprung up in her bosom at the settlers' demand, but now it was destroyed. She knew that the savages had refused to accept the terms offered them.
"Ye see, pet, ye're mine, beyond all hope," laughed the White Wolf, as he again raised Edith before him.
"I'd rather die then—"
"It's like you will; but then you've got to be mine fust. You cain't overjump thet nohow." Then adding, in a raised voice: "Hellow, you fellers! down thar!—our answer is, jest do your level durnedest. But, mark my words. The very fust lick you strike at us, 'll be the death o' these captives. We've got a big fire a-burnin' in thar. We'll jest rake it out here, tie the boy an' gal together an' pitch 'em on the coals an' let 'em sizzle right afore your eyes. Mind ye, now, I'm talkin' right from the book—it's swore to."
"This is your last answer, then?" sternly demanded Boone.
"With a few words more, yas. You jist take your critters an' ride straight away east until you git to the fur-hill whar the two trees grows side by side. You 'light thar. A'ter thet you kin do jist as you please. Come back a'ter us, if so be you think best. We'll be out thar in the open, then."
"And if we refuse?"
"Jest what I told ye afore. Strike one lick, and you kill your fri'nds. We've got the deadwood on ye thar!"
"Give us ten minutes to think it over," added Boone.