Then the voice of a white man came from the brink of the stream.
“Shackelford!”
The trapper glanced knowingly at George Long, and ascended to the uncouth dormitory. In the gable that looked toward the besiegers a small window was situated, and to this the frontiersman applied his face.
“Well, what do you want, Kyle?”
“Reports which reached my ears say that you slew eight Pawnees last night. Is it true?”
“I suppose it is,” was the reply, “though I counted but seven.”
“I fear that your deeds have sealed your doom.”
“You don’t fear any such thing, Tom Kyle.”
The renegade bit his lip, and said a few words to Red Eagle, who sat on his horse near by.
“Shackelford, our errand here can not be a mystery to you,” he said, turning toward the cabin again.