“Nothing!” he stammered.
“True as Gospel. But— Hello! what does this mean?”
The newly returned guard had thrown back the door of the prison wigwam, and confronted the captives.
“Hondurah want pale-faces in big place,” he said. “Want to say much to them.”
“Wal, lead on, an’ don’t stand hyar blabbin’. I’m anxious to hear what Hondurah has to say.”
“Pale-face won’t talk so big when sun sleeps, mebbe.”
The trader made no reply; the Indian’s words had set him to thinking, and, guarded by the warriors, the twain found themselves on the way to the “square.”
Doc Cromer limped somewhat, on account of his wound, but the White Tiger walked bravely erect at his side, with his eyes fixed upon the motley, revengeful crowd that awaited him.
Suddenly he saw the captive girl turn toward him, and her gaze fastened itself upon his face. A moment later she started back, with a light cry, which he could not understand.
“There are two White Tigers,” she said. “He spoke the truth when dying.”