“Yes, me! the Screamin' Eagle of the Smoky Roost, alias the Red Jingo of the Little Big Horn.”
Midnight Jack was silent for a moment.
“You'd better not, Rube. You'll have other use for your muscles before you get out of this devil land. Think of my sister—very near us now, no doubt. Leave the sun-dance alone; let Indians mutilate themselves.”
But the old borderer was not to be diverted by his companion's word.
In his mind he had determined to attempt the sun-dance on the morrow, and become the only white man who had submitted to the horrible torture.
Silently the two adventurers glided from the square, and sought the lodge which Setting Sun had allotted to them as visitors.
As yet the death of Sweep-the-Sky had not been discovered, and Mouseskin's trumpet was still mute.
Midnight Jack threw himself upon the scanty skins within the lodge, and soon fell asleep.
After awhile he was startled by a touch, which drew him into a sitting posture in the gloom of the hut.
“It's only me,” said a well-known voice at his ear. “We've got to do one of two things—leave the Injun shanties now, or kill Tanglefoot to-morrow.”