"The boy did not kill him," said others. "It was the white warrior who spilled our brother's blood. He must be pursued and slain."
"What, then, shall be done with the boy? Shall he go?"
"No; we will keep him. He has strong limbs. We will adopt him into our tribe. He will make a brave warrior."
"He shall be my brother," said the chief. "I will take him in place of my brother who is dead."
There was a low murmur of approval. Even those who had first recommended the infliction of death seemed to have changed their minds. They looked at the boy as he lay stretched out upon the ground. He was stout, comely, and strongly made. He had proved that he was an admirable rider. If he should join them he would grow up into a warrior who would do credit to their tribe.
So the matter was settled. The only thing that remained was to acquaint the prisoner with the decision.
The interpreter approached Tom, and said, "White boy, you are our captive. Why should we not kill you?"
"You can if you wish," answered Tom; "but why should you kill me? I have done you no harm."
"Our brother is killed. He lies dead upon the plain."
"I did not kill him," said Tom.