“Yes, yes, you are right, boy! These are not Blackfoot braves!”
“They are Sioux warriors, and, it may be, fresh from the village of our friend, the chief, Running Elk!” said Dick.
Roger found his voice at hearing that glorious news.
“Try them, Dick!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Give them the sign the chief taught us! Let them know we are friends, and not enemies! Yes, I can tell the feathers are those of our friends, the Sioux. It is going to be all right after all!”
Dick meanwhile took out a piece of white linen he had with him and started to wave it.
At the same time he made certain gesticulations with his other hand that would have a meaning in the eyes of Sioux braves, if, as they hoped, these hidden red men proved to be such.
At first no notice was taken of his signals. Perhaps the wily warriors suspected that it might be some sort of trap to catch them unawares; but, as Dick continued his motions, they presently met with a response.
Several Indians cautiously arose to their feet, making responsive gestures. Then they started to advance toward the spot where the three palefaces stood.
“Why,” exploded Roger, “look at every bush giving up a brave! There must be twenty of them, all told. How lucky for us they are Sioux, and not Blackfeet, the allies of Lascelles.”
From every quarter the Indians now advanced, forming a complete cordon around Dick and his friends, who awaited their coming calmly, confident as to the result of the meeting.