Mahtawa raised his head suddenly, and said, pointing to the silver rifle, “Mahtawa wishes to have the two-shotted medicine gun. He will give his best horse in exchange.”
“Mahtawa is liberal,” answered Joe, “but the pale-faced youth cannot part with it. He has far to travel, and must shoot buffaloes by the way.”
“The pale-faced youth shall have a bow and arrows to shoot the buffalo,” rejoined the Indian.
“He cannot use the bow and arrow,” answered Joe; “he has not been trained like the Red-man.”
Mahtawa was silent for a few seconds, and his dark brows frowned more heavily than ever over his eyes.
“The Pale-faces are too bold,” he exclaimed, working himself into a passion; “they are in the power of Mahtawa. If they will not give the gun he will take it.”
He sprang suddenly to his feet as he spoke, and snatched the rifle from Henri’s hand.
Henri, being ignorant of the language, had not been able to understand the foregoing conversation, although he saw well enough that it was not an agreeable one but no sooner did he find himself thus rudely and unexpectedly deprived of the rifle, than he jumped up, wrenched it in a twinkling from the Indian’s grasp, and hurled him violently out of the tent.
In a moment Mahtawa drew his knife, uttered a savage yell, and sprang on the reckless hunter, who, however, caught his wrist, and held it as if in a vice. The yell brought a dozen warriors instantly to the spot, and before Dick had time to recover from his astonishment, Henri was surrounded and pinioned despite his herculean struggles.
Before Dick could move, Joe Blunt grasped his arm, and whispered quickly, “Don’t rise! You can’t help him! They daren’t kill him till San-it-sa-rish agrees.”