“Why do you come bothering these people?” Dick took a new tack. “They have done nothing to hurt you. They are your friends. Why do you attack them and set fire to their homes and send bullets crashing through their windows?”
For the third time the Indian grunted. Dick gave up. He could learn nothing from this sullen fellow. Very well then, he could go back and cool his heels behind the guarded door of some village dwelling.
They reached the place where Dick had thrown down his gun, and, farther on, he also picked up the weapon belonging to his prisoner. Not long afterward they made their appearance in the village, where they were met by a number of people, including Sandy and Toma.
Ordinarily Sandy would have come forward to compliment Dick upon his achievement, but this time, for some reason, he refrained. And Sandy’s appearance and behavior were strange. He stood and stared at Dick almost dully. Toma’s attitude was equally peculiar and inexplicable.
“Well,” said Dick, “I’ve brought him back.”
No one replied.
“Sandy,” stated Dick, “this is the Indian who fired that shot a while ago. I ran him down. What do you think we’d better do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy muttered, in a voice that might have come from the depths of some subterranean vault. “I don’t know, Dick. This is terrible. What will we do?”
Dick flushed angrily.
“Do,” he snapped out testily, “why we’ll do what we’ve been doing for the last two months—the best we can. What makes Toma stand there like a lump on a log, eyeing me so queerly? What have I done? Why, you all act as if I had committed a crime, instead of bringing this man back to answer for his misdeeds.”