Plucking a feather from his own headdress, the scout pinched the quill and bent it over, holding it in position on Rube's head.
This, then, was the totem sign of his supposed chief. And he, Rube Carter, was believed by these Crow Indians to be a spy of their enemy Broken Feather!
He did not know that one of the medicine men had questioned him in the tongue of the Sioux, which, if he were indeed one of Broken Feather's tribe, he ought to have understood. His failure to answer was taken for stubbornness, a sure evidence of his guilt.
Falling Water spoke, holding up a cautioning finger to impose attention to his words. Rube guessed by his serious judicial manner that he was passing a sentence of punishment upon him.
"It's a pity none o' you c'n understand plain, straight-forward English," he protested. "I c'd explain in a jiffy."
"Eh?" cried the medicine man who had addressed him in the Sioux, "you c'n speak English yourself, can you, young 'un?"
Rube looked across at him in astonishment. Surely he was not an Indian, speaking like this! He was an old, old man with a wrinkled face, white hair, and a matted white beard and dim blue eyes. In dress and manner, however, he was very little different from his companions.
"It's the only language that I c'n speak," said Rube.
"Barrin' your own," winked the medicine man. "But you're not the only one of your tribe that can speak English. Broken Feather himself's a dab hand at it, so I hear. A clever scoundrel is Broken Feather. Togged you out like a Paleface and sent you into this reservation to spy around and find out how many braves and warriors we've got, how many war-horses we possess, and how far it's safe for him to come out on the war-trail against us. Well, young 'un, you're caught at it, and you've got to take the consequences, which is as much as to say that you're going to be tortured to death. You asked for plain English, and now you've got it. Quit!"
"But you haven't let me explain," Rube objected hotly.