Tom Kyle started, and almost sprung to his feet.
The chief stood before him, his left hand gently clenched.
“Red Eagle could find no sticks,” he said, smiling at the renegade’s surprise. “But he has found a black stone and a yellow one. The black stone is the flower with midnight hair; the yellow stone is her sister.”
Then Red Eagle suddenly whirled and dexterously changed the pebbles, while his face was turned from his white companion.
“Now!” he cried, facing Kyle again. “Each of Eagle’s hands holds a stone. Let the Pale Pawnee touch one. If he touches the hand that holds the yellow stone, the fairest skinned is his, the black-haired one Red Eagle’s.”
The great red hands were outstretched toward the renegade, side by side, and the guesser stood before them, a statue of indecision.
He had a preference—his face told his red companion that—and he did not want to guess the girl he desired into Red Eagle’s hands. He inspected the fists a long time before he raised his hand, and then he held his finger over the chief’s right member, unwilling to see it descend.
All at once he threw a slight glance upward through his long black lashes.
The Indian’s eyes were riveted upon his finger, and a strange smile, which the renegade deemed one of triumph, toyed with his handsome lips.
“I’ll catch him!” mentally ejaculated the renegade, dropping his eyes to his hand again. “I’ll cheat him out of the blonde, yet.”