"Yours?" he demanded, his flashing eyes fastened on the astonished face of Sandy, just as though he had been able to read the nature of both lads in that single earnest look, and understood how impulse swayed one more than the other.
Sandy might have wished to deny all ownership of the weapon; but somehow he was unable to do so, with those impelling eyes fastened upon him. So, still unable to use his tongue, he simply nodded his head.
"You shoot at French trader?" continued Pontiac.
Another nod in the affirmative answered him; and then Bob saw a change begin to spread over the dark features of the chief. He looked at Sandy; but his brother failed to grasp the wonderful meaning of the miracle that had been wrought in their behalf. To his mind all this talk only served as a forerunner to the dreadful fate that was surely to be their portion.
"Why white boy shoot French trapper?" asked Pontiac.
Realizing that Sandy was unable to frame a coherent reply, Bob boldly took it upon himself to make answer.
"You ask why, great Pontiac?" he said. "Because he could not lie there and see a cowardly snake creep up behind a brave man to strike him in the back. He sent his lead into the arm that held the warclub, and saved the life of Pontiac!"
Then, Indian though he was, the great Pontiac smiled. Perhaps he understood how these paleface boys must have known that, if the traitorous Frenchman had been allowed to carry out his will, it would have been much to the advantage of the border settlements; but that Sandy, unable to control his impulse to rebuke such rank treachery as Larue exhibited, had been unable to hold his fire.
Pontiac turned to the surging crowd of Indians. He held up his hand, and every shout was stilled; even the murmuring ceased, such was his magnetic influence over the wild spirits of hot-headed young warriors whom their own chiefs could not restrain.