Presently the red crowd admitted the whites to the circle in which Silver Rifle stood, and Hondurah, a noble specimen of the North American Indian, stepped forward, with folded arms.
“Hondurah will be brief,” he said, fastening his dark eyes upon the young White Tiger, who, with head thrown back in lofty defiance, met his look with unblanched cheek.
“Dohma and Renadah left their lodges five sleeps ago for the trail. They were to return last sleep. White Tiger, where are the chiefs?”
“They never crossed my trail,” was the quick, but measured reply. “Hondurah, if I slew Dohma and Renadah, I would not lie about it. Neither was their blood upon my darker brother’s hands.”
Murmurs of incredulity ran round the red circle, which impulsively contracted.
“White Tiger lies,” said the chief, slowly, but with rising indignation. “A forked tongue will do him no good here. Let him speak the truth, or die before yonder fiery Manitou sleeps below the waves of Gitche Gumee.”
“I have spoken the truth, red devils,” the boy hissed with such bitterness that Doc Cromer stepped reprovingly toward him. “I will not say there is blood on my hands, when there is none. Make the best of my answer. I can die but once.”
Hondurah’s tomahawk shot from his girdle.
“White Tiger, you have killed many Chippewas,” he hissed. “We have hunted you long, never dreaming that you were a twin. Your twin brother is dead; the young braves stole him from the lodge last sleep, and burned him in the forest. You may not tread the long trail to-day by taking the forked tongue from your mouth and putting one in that is not forked. Now Hondurah asks for the last time. Where are Dohma and Renadah?”
“I don’t know!” shouted the youth. “If I possessed a knife, Hondurah, you’d never call another white boy a liar!”