Dick felt a little dazed as they came to a sudden halt. The Indians had fallen back, yet did not disperse. Deep silence greeted them. It was so deeply and intensely quiet that Dick could almost believe that the Indians were statues of stone.
He tried to speak, but his tongue clove in his mouth. Fear had settled upon him and he seemed powerless to shake it off. At the crucial moment, when everything depended upon his actions and deportment, he was failing miserably. Fortunately, he had the good sense to see this and tried desperately to control himself. He sat up more rigidly in the saddle, his mittened hands clenched.
“Make ’em talk,” whispered Toma.
Dick flung up one arm in a commanding gesture.
“Bring the two white men here at once,” he ordered.
Then suddenly his gaze seemed to waver. The crowd became a blur—a shadowy something before his eyes. In their place rose up the stern figure of Inspector Cameron—the worn, austere face, the steel-gray eyes, the decisive chin. Again Dick threw up his arm. A strange calmness pervaded him.
“Bring them here,” he repeated in a voice of gathering impatience.
A murmur rose from the crowd. Suddenly it fell back, hesitated for a brief interval, then hurried away to do the white chief’s bidding. The tension had relaxed. As he slowly turned in his saddle to meet the gaze of his friend, a ray of sunlight fell across Toma’s face.
“Bye-’n’-bye they come!” he cried happily.