“The canoes must signify something,” mused Dick. “They’re symbols of some kind. It would be interesting to know.”
That night the boys slept in a large tepee that had been pitched near the shore of the lake. It was late when they awoke. Dick scrambled out of his rabbit-robe and hurried outside. A loud clamor, coming from the center of the village, increased in volume as he stood there shading his eyes with his hand.
Toma and Sandy came bustling out a short time later and the three boys stood watching the dense throng, milling about the space where the feast and dance had taken place on the previous night.
“Wonder what’s up?” said Sandy. “They’re making more noise than a house full of huskies. I’ll bet everybody forgot to go to bed last night.”
“Perhaps the village executioner is getting ready to sharpen his hatchet,” guessed Dick.
“Ugh!” shivered Sandy. “I’d almost forgotten about that. It’s one event that I don’t intend to witness. You fellows can go if you like—but please count me out. My father went to a ‘hanging’ once in England, and he used to wake up nights for months afterward and would lay there thinking about it.”
The approach of the chief’s son cut short any further comment on the impending tragedy. The young Indian greeted them cordially, pointed to the glistening waters of the lake, and proceeded to disrobe. With a whoop of delight, Sandy commenced to follow his example.
“Come on, Toma!” Dick cried. “We’ll join them. I haven’t had a decent bath for—let’s see—how long is it?”
“For years!” jibed Sandy. “I reckon you’re about the dirtiest prospector that ever struck these parts.” Dick repaid Sandy for the insult by bouncing a small pebble off his defamer’s head. A moment later they were engaged in a friendly scuffle, when a warning shout from Toma drew their attention.
“Henderson!”