Then a couple of braves entered, and the two youths were conducted to a point where a circle of Indians sat on the ground, while in the center sat a big, ugly-looking Indian at least fifty years of age. This was the chief, and the youths were taken in front of him.
“Ugh,” he grunted. “Young white men cause a lot uv braves to die over in Peaceful Valley. Young white men’s lives must pay for braves. You die to-night, at the stake.”
The youths glanced at each other, and then looked at the old chief searchingly. They were trying to see whether he meant what he said, or not. And from the grim look on his face, they guessed that he did mean absolutely what he said. The part the youths had played in the affairs at Peaceful Valley had angered the Indians, and they intended taking revenge, now that they had the two captives helpless and in their power.
“Take um away,” said the chief, with a wave of his hand, and Dick and Ben were conducted back to the wigwam. As soon as they were alone, they looked at each other for a few moments in silence, a look of dismay on their faces.
“The outlook is not very pleasing for us, Dick,” said Ben, presently.
“You are right, Ben. I wonder if we could escape?”
Ben shook his head. “Not much chance of that,” he said. “Our arms are bound, and the wigwam is guarded. We couldn’t get away.”
“I guess you are right. But I don’t relish being burned at the stake, Ben.”
“Neither do I.”
“Perhaps we can make a break and escape as we are being taken to the place where they intend to conduct the ceremonies,” said Dick, thoughtfully.