It was the first outbreak of treason, and the yells of approval that followed it, blanched the renegade’s cheeks.
One glance at the Gold Girl, and he hastened to remedy his mistake.
“I spoke for peace,” he said; “not for the life of Red Eagle’s slayer. The Plattes and Loups are brothers now; shall all brotherly ties be severed?”
“If they do not say to the Loups, ‘Take the white boy and avenge Red Eagle’—yes!” cried the Little Buffalo.
The fifty daring fellows in the midst of their three hundred mad brethren bit their lips, and shook their heads resolutely.
“Then, Pawnee Loups, we keep the pale-faces or die!” cried the renegade, as the fifty threw the deadly weapons to their shoulders.
The women and children, with wild shrieks, fled from the dangerous ground and cowered in their lodges, pitiable objects of abject terror.
But still the red fingers refused to press the triggers.
Neither party seemed willing to inaugurate a conflict which might grow into a war of extermination, and the silence which reigned could almost have been felt.
The feelings of the captives at this dread moment can not be described. Their lives hung on delicate threads; death, like the sword of Damocles, quivered over their heads, and they waited with throbless hearts for the volley of fire and lead.