In the midst of the boy's conjectures as to the fate in store for him, he was jerked to his feet and lashed to the tree under whose wide-spreading branches he had been released.
Gopher Gid's arms were left free, but cords secured his legs to the stately cottonwood.
And the boy laughed grimly, and his eyes flashed with delight, as a long stick, green and stout, was thrust forward.
“Boy fight the dogs!” said the leader of the torturers in tolerable English. “If he kill 'em all Indians let 'im go, mebbe. White boy afeard to meet 'em?”
The crowd drew back, and the boy saw that the largest dogs were now held in leash with buffalo-cords, a reserve, probably, for the climax of the torture.
A semicircle was formed before the little trapper, and one of the scarlet imps suddenly picked up a cur and tossed him at the captive. But the quiet eyes of the trapper anticipated the dog's destination, and down came the club while he was yet in mid-air.
“Heaven help me!” cried the little trapper. “What can I do with fifty bloodthirsty Indian dogs?”
The reserve did not shrink from the combat, but sprung like famished wolves at the boy. The foremost received a blow that smashed his skull, and stretched him lifeless among his smaller companions.
Then blow after blow was dealt in rapid succession, the savages pressing up with their torches and urging on the dogs, which had entered with glee into the mad conflict.
It was a terrible battle, such as was never seen before in the heart of Sioux land. With bloodless lips firmly pressed together, and eyes flashing, but not with anticipated victory, Gopher Gid struggled against the mad dogs.