The sachem almost cracked his teeth with anger.
“Chiefs,” he cried, turning to several Indians who stood at his left, “to the torture-tree with the pale liar. He shall not see the sun sleep. When he burns he will tell where lie our stricken brothers. Hondurah has spoken. Away.”
The chiefs had sprung forward to obey the mandate, when, with a great bound, Silver Rifle threw herself between them and the doomed boy.
“Let Silver Rifle speak first!” she cried. “In the great cave near the Manitou’s chapel, sleep Dohma and Renadah, side by side. They fought for Silver Rifle—fought with tomahawks for the white girl. Dohma died, and then Renadah fell beneath this arm!”
She paused, and howls of rage broke from the savage band, and as Hondurah sprung toward her, scores of scalping-knives and tomahawks flashed in mid-air, and the click, click, click of rifle-locks resounded on every side.
“The innocent,” she cried, “shall not suffer for the guilty! If the blood of Dohma and Renadah demand a victim, I am here. But, ere I die, let me clutch the ring that Oagla holds, for I would know who I am.”
The gaze of many flitted to Oagla, who thrust his hand into the medicine-bag at his side.
For a moment he rummaged among the ocherous stones, and then withdrew his fingers.
His face told a story.
The ring was gone!