Through the long evening and late into the night the dance continued, growing more hideous and noisy with each passing hour. So violently did a number of the participants disport themselves that they dropped to the ground in utter exhaustion, but leaping up again as soon as they had recovered sufficiently to make such an effort possible.
Dick and Sandy had grown weary of watching long before the dance broke up, yet as guests of honor they hesitated about making known their wish to retire for the night.
“I’m so sleepy I can’t hold my head up much longer,” Sandy declared. “But just look at Toma—he’s enjoying every minute of it. I honestly believe the old boy is anxious to get out there himself.”
Hearing the remark, the guide turned a flushed, excited face toward Sandy and grinned good-naturedly.
“You bet! I like go there myself. Mebbe sometime I show you how good I make ’em like that dance.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Sandy.
Squaws and children kept adding fresh fuel to the three huge campfires that had been kindled within the dancing space. In their bright glare there came presently a group of Indians, attired in complete war regalia, and closely following them, still another group, half-carrying, half-dragging two pitiable, quaking forms.
Dick’s heart seemed to stand still when he had recognized the identity of the two victims—no other than Henderson and Baptiste La Lond! With a shaking finger, he pointed them out to Sandy and Toma.
“Great Caesar! I hope the Indians are not going to torture them right here in front of our eyes,” Sandy exclaimed.
The approach of the group of warriors had been the signal for the dance to cease, although the drum still kept up a low, muffled roll. Dick turned to Toma.