Little Cayuse and his Indian trailers halted and began again their vocal gymnastics, when the trail disappeared on the rocks.
“Whiskizoos,” said Nomad, staring about. “No man what w’ars a red scar like Conover does kin be honest, and from ther fust I said it.”
The Indians talked of the three-legged rabbit, and of the vulture that dropped for its prey like a hawk.
“Heap bad medicine!” said Chappo, deeply disturbed.
Little Cayuse, inasmuch as he was the chief of the Indian scouts, dared not, in the presence of Pa-e-has-ka, express what he thought; but his dark face looked troubled and his eyes were big and bright. Buffalo Bill saw him paw a circle quickly through the air.
The circle, emblem of the egg, is everywhere the “sign” of life; and life is the opposite of death. Little Cayuse made the “life” sign, to keep away the shadow of death.
All looked off toward the Cumbres Mountains. Scarred and splintered, the bare peaks lifted themselves in the gray morning. The high rays of the rising sun struck them and seemed to burn there.
As they did so, the outline of a great black head—the head of a giant with grizzly black hair—came into view on the side of the nearest of the mountains.
The Indians lifted groans of fright and horror and dropped downward on their faces, groveling.
Old Nomad uttered a snort of amazement, and stared until his little old eyes popped.