He was occupied on one occasion in admiring a particularly interesting sample of this native handiwork when he was startled by an explosive grunt. When he looked up quickly, it was to meet the gaze of a young Indian, whom he had seen somewhere before. He was probably one of the men who had conducted the pack-train, Dick thought. Then, suddenly, he remembered. An involuntary cry of recognition escaped from his lips. It was the son of the chief—the victim of Baptiste’s brutal attack.
Dick’s heart was beating joyfully as he sprang forward to grasp the outstretched hand.
CHAPTER XXII
IN THE INDIAN VILLAGE
The young Indian’s first act was to dismiss the guard and wave aside the inquisitive group that had gathered outside the tepee. Then he turned towards Dick, jabbering excitedly, his face wreathed with smiles. He patted the prisoner on the back and laughed uproariously.
His manner indicated plainly his surprise and joy at the unexpected meeting.
“This is a huge joke,” he seemed to be trying to say. “Please don’t worry any more—O fair-skinned stranger. I am the chief’s son. I have unlimited authority. No one shall harm you.”
He went through an amusing pantomime for a few moments, then clutched Dick by the arm and drew him quickly outside, making a sign for him to follow. He led the way to a large tepee, kicked aside the flap and motioned Dick to enter.
The chief, sitting cross-legged just opposite the entrance, was startled into sudden wakefulness by the unexpected interruption. He had, it was quite apparent, been indulging in an early morning nap. His manner was not especially cordial, Dick thought, yet this impression vanished a moment later when, at the conclusion of his son’s brief explanation, he rose with great dignity, crossed over and placed a reassuring hand on Dick’s head.
This ceremony over, the young Indian smiled, took his charge in tow again and they were off—this time to the far end of the village. Tepee after tepee they visited, going through the same monotonous performance. Then Dick received a shock. The last tepee they had entered did not contain the usual swarthy, dignified inmate. The atmosphere was wholly different here. Dick drew back with a startled cry, while a feeling of revulsion swept over him. Baptiste La Lond, a shivering white-faced wreck, sat with his back propped against a small pile of firewood and, close by, snoring as contentedly as if nothing had ever happened, sprawled the huge bulk of Bear Henderson.
“Ah, monsieur,” whimpered the abject, cowering wretch, “so you too haf suffered ze terrible misfortune. Veree soon we die. Zees barbarians haf no heart. Zey thirst for our veree blood. O monsieur, I am stricken. I feel ze so terrible, terrible position.”