Though she did not know it, Ruth had already risen to a high place in the Indian’s esteem. From the first, her frank, sunshiny smile and cheery voice had not been lost on the shrewd old man. Next to Miss Drexal, he had singled her out as being particularly worthy of his faithful service. Emmy and Anne he respectfully admired from afar, by reason of their undeniable good looks. Next to Ruth, he approved of Marian’s quiet, dependable ways. Betty’s eyeglasses and dignity awed him. Jane, Frances and Sarah he did not understand in the least, while for Blanche he had conceived instant dislike. He had been quick to pick her out as a shirker, and the one discordant element in the otherwise happy flock.
Crouched over his supper, his keen eyes frequently traveled from his food to where the Equitable Eight were busily engaged in piling up the fuel for a mammoth camp fire. By the time he had finished eating, they had fanned it to a ruddy blaze and seated themselves in a circle about it. Carefully piling up the empty dishes, he set off for the lake to wash them. Returning, he placed them in a neat pile before one of the tents, and seating himself in its shadow, curiously watched the animated group about the fire. The steady murmur of young voices, broken by continuous peals of laughter, brought a flicker of grim enjoyment to his stolid features, though he had not the faintest idea of what it was all about.
As it happened, Frances had decreed that each in turn should relate the most ridiculous thing she had ever done. With every recital their mirth grew wilder. Even Blanche Shirly so far forgot her grievances as to contribute a really funny little account of having once misdirected her Christmas gifts to the extent of mailing a lace breakfast cap to a finicky uncle and a briarwood pipe to a dear old lady who was naturally deeply offended. Happening to catch Ruth’s merry eye, Blanche at once retired into her shell. For once she had been caught off her guard. She had not intended to relax the bored pose she was so fond of assuming, yet she was finding it harder to maintain with each hour spent in camp.
Spying Blue Wolf huddled in the shadows, Ruth whispered to Miss Drexal to ask him to join the circle. Rather to the Guardian’s surprise, he accepted the invitation and stalked silently into their midst, seating himself beside Ruth. In the flickering glow of the firelight, he presented the last picturesque touch needed. He seemed the very spirit of the Camp Fire come to life for the occasion.
With a view toward entertaining him, the girls sang several of their most tuneful Camp Fire songs. Later, Emmy thrilled them with the wonder of her golden voice. She had just ended an exquisite little French song, which was a particular favorite with her friends, when an astonishing thing happened. Rising, the Indian announced with proud solemnity: “I sing for you one song my people. We call him Aotzi No-otz. Long ago Cheyenne fight. Slay many enemies. Their warriors come back, faces all black ashes. Take heap scalps. Sing loud this to Indian he no fight. Paint the face red. Stay behind.”
With this somewhat sketchy explanation, Blue Wolf raised a sudden weird wailing cry of, “Ya he ya ye he—hai yai!” that echoed on the still night air, and sent delicious creepy thrills up and down the spines of the listeners. As he sang on, they could almost visualize the war party of savages, their faces hideously blackened with ashes, the dripping scalps of their enemies dangling at their belts, as they flung their bitter taunt of victory in the faces of the cowards of their tribe. The chant ended with a wild: “I hai yu hai yu!” that caused the spell-bound audience to cast furtive glances toward the blackness of the brooding forest, as though they half expected to see a band of blood-thirsty Cheyennes come whooping from its depths and pounce upon them.
A deep silence reigned for a moment afterward. Then Blue Wolf was assailed by eager pleas for another song. He could not be prevailed upon to sing again, however, though he grunted the grudging promise, “Sing him some day, mebbe.” Nor did he reseat himself before the fire, but bidding them a brief good night, strode away through the darkness.
It was not long afterward until the circle broke up. After a vigorous beating out of the fire there followed a willing march to bed. It had been a strenuous day, and the tired foresters were quite ready to try the virtue of their bough beds. Ruth had confessed to being dreadfully sleepy, but once settled for the night, slumber refused to chain down her eyelids. From where she lay, she could look out through the narrow gap in the tent flaps and glimpse the outdoors as a dark shadowy mass. Her mind reviewing the day’s events, Blanche Shirly’s one effort toward amiability stood out so clearly as to cause her to breathe a soft sigh of satisfaction. She wondered if it really heralded the dawn of Blanche’s better self. It had been but a mere flash. Immediately afterward she had dropped back into her old aggravating attitude, yet, somehow, Ruth could not help feeling that Blanche had taken a step forward.
CHAPTER XVI
A DISCOURAGED TORCH BEARER