Great Bear moistened a finger at his lips and touched it. The rod hissed angrily.
Jesse understood now.
It was a branding iron. But still he did not quail, though his passions rose in a perfect storm.
"Paleface like um?" grinned Great Bear once more causing the hot iron to hiss.
"Never ate any," retorted the desperado with a grin that was even more expansive than that of the chief. "Going to brand some stock that you have stolen, eh?"
"Huh! Indian no brand cows. Um brand men. Um burn you."
"Oh, so that's the game is it? You're going to brand me like you would a critter on the range? Well, what do you think my men will do to you if I don't get away from here before you do it? Think they will do anything to you, you black-hearted cur?"
"Paleface no hurt Indian. Paleface all dead."
"That's a lie. One of them is here now watching you. He'll carry the word to the men and if there is not enough of them left he'll go to the fort for help. Guess the soldiers wouldn't do much to you."
Great Bear cast a glance that was almost apprehensive, out through the opening. With an expression that was half snarl, half grunt he drew the branding iron from the pot and squatted down beside the great outlaw, leering down into his face, gloating over the joy that was to be his.