"A deputation," he said. "An old chief and three young men. They've got a neche with them who talks 'white.' And they're not going to quit till they've held a big pow-wow with the white chief, Kars. They've got his name good. I'd say Louis Creal's got them well primed."
"Yes."
Kars glanced round the hut. And a half smile lit his eyes at the meagre condition of the place. Bill's bed occupied one side of it. His own the other. Between the two stood a packing case on end, which served as a table. A bucket of drinking water stood in a corner with a beaker beside it. For the rest there was a kit bag for a pillow at the head of each bed, while underneath were ammunition cases filled with rifle and revolver ammunition, and the walls were decorated with a whole arsenal of weapons. But it lost nothing in its businesslike aspect, and Kars felt that its impression would not be lost upon his visitors.
"The council chamber," he said. "Have 'em come right along, Bill. Maybe they're going to hand us Louis Creal's bluff. Well, I guess we're calling any old bluff. If they're looking for what they can locate of our preparations they'll find all they need. They'll get an elegant tale to hand Louis Creal when they get back."
Five minutes later the capacity of the hut was taxed to its utmost. Kars was seated on the side of his bed. Bill and Abe Dodds occupied the other. The earth floor, from the foot of the bunks to the door, was littered by a group of squatting figures clad in buckskin and cotton blanket, and exhaling an aroma without which no Indian council chamber is complete, and which is as offensive as it is pungent. Peigan Charley, the contemptuous, blocked up the doorway ready at a moment's notice to carry out any orders his "boss" might choose to give him, and living in the hopes that such orders, when they came, might at least demand violence towards these "damn neches" who had dared to invade the camp.
But his hopes were destined to remain unfulfilled. His boss was talking easily, and in a friendliness which disgusted his retainer. He seemed to be even deferring to this aged scallawag of a chief, as though he were some one of importance. That was one of Charley's greatest grievances against his chief. He was always too easy with "damn-fool neches." Charley felt that these miserable creatures should be "all shot up dead." Worse would come if these "coyotes" were allowed to go free. There was no such thing as murder in his mind as regards his own race. Only killing—which was, at all times, not only justifiable, but a necessity.
"The great Chief Thunder-Cloud is very welcome," Kars responded to the interpreter's translation of the introduction. "Guess he's the big chief of Bell River. The wise man of his people. And I'm sure he's come right along to talk—in the interests of peace. Good. We're right here for peace, too. Maybe Thunder-Cloud's had a look at the camp as he came in. It's a peaceful camp, just set right here to chase gold. No doubt his people, who've been around since we came, have told him that way, too."
As the white man's words were translated to him, the old Indian blinked his inflamed eyes, from which the lids and under-lids seemed to be falling away as a result of his extreme age. He wagged his head gently as though fearful of too great effort, and his sagging lips made a movement suggesting an approving expression, but failed physically to carry out his intent.
Bill was studying that senile, expressionless face. The skin hung loose and was scored with creases like crumpled parchment. The low forehead so deeply furrowed. The small eyes so offensive in their inflamed condition. The almost toothless jaws which the lips refused to cover. It was a hateful presence with nothing of the noble red man about it. It was with relief he turned to the younger examples of what this man had once been.
But the chief was talking in that staccato, querulous fashion of old age, and his white audience was waiting for the interpreter.