"No, it isn't, Wallace," declared Al. "It's mine. If I'd minded this scout, we'd have gotten back all right."
But at this moment, which it seemed evident must be their last, they heard a deep, commanding voice speak a few rapid words in the Sioux tongue, and the sound of footsteps ceased.
"They're going to rush us," whispered Al, his voice shaking but his eyes still courageous. "Let's give them all the shots we can and then kill ourselves. Good-bye, Wallace, old man,—and good-bye, mother, and Annie, and Tommy," he added, to himself.
Thoroughly expecting death within a few seconds, he could hardly believe his ears when he heard the same deep, masterful voice which had halted their pursuers, say, loudly,
"Al Briscoe! Al Briscoe!"
Al, shaking and pale, looked at his companions, too amazed and bewildered even to hear the Sioux words, unintelligible to him, which followed his name. The mere utterance of the latter, in such a place and under such circumstances, was of itself ominous and terrifying enough to chill his blood, for it seemed to single him out from his companions for some special and horrible fate. But the Sioux scout looked at him solemnly.
"You understand?" he asked.
"No," answered Al, shuddering.
"He say, 'Al Briscoe, I, Te-o-kun-ko, want talk with you.'"