Happily, his past intercourse with hunting-parties of the red nation had given him a speaking knowledge of their language, and his companion, who knew something of almost every tribe west of the Missouri, could, as he expressed it, speak the tongue “like er native.”
It was now near midnight.
The drums had ceased to sound, and but few Indians remained in the square. The rest had sought their lodges, there to dream of the brutalities of the sun-dance, and to prepare their bodies for the endurance which many of the younger bucks had determined on in face of the assembled tribe.
“Hyar ar the ropes—strong enough to hold an ox up,” whispered Rube, as he and the road-agent began to inspect the lofty torture-pole in the dim light of the stars.
“Ye've seen the sun-dance, Mid—cuss it all! I mean Runnin' Water.”
“I have not, strange to say, but—”
“I hev,” was the interruption. “The red dogs run a knife through the thick muscles of the breast—right hyar—an' put in a good wooden skewer. To this they tie one of these ropes, an' then they dance about the pole, an' fall back with their full weight. It's terrible! Sometimes the muscles give way soon; but if they're extra tough they hold out five hours. It's a sickening sight.”
“Did you ever try it, Rube?” asked Jack.
“No; but I'd like to try the dance once.”
“You!”