In pantomime he crouched and pointed; the Weasel's mild eyes turned.
"The Iroquois!" whispered Mount, anxiously. "They wear O-Kwen-cha!—red paint! Hark to the war-drums! Do you not hear them chanting:
"Ha-wa-sa-say!
Ha-wa-sa-say!"
The Weasel's eyes grew troubled; he looked up at Mount trustfully, like a child who refuses to be frightened.
"I hear Che-ten-ha, the mouse; he gnaws, gnaws, gnaws."
"No, it is the Iroquois!" urged Mount. "You have fought them, Cade; you remember? Say that you remember!"
"I—I have fought the Iroquois," repeated the Weasel, passing his hand over his brow; "but it was years ago—years ago—too long ago to remember—"
"No, no!" cried Mount, "it was but yesterday, old friend—yesterday! And who went with you on the burnt trail, Cade? Who went with you by night and by day, by starlight and by sun, eating when you ate, starving when you starved, drinking deep when you drank, thirsting when you thirsted? It was I, Cade!" cried Mount, eagerly; "I!"
"It was Tah-hoon-to-whe, the night-hawk," murmured the little man.