"Oh, who are they? Enemies!"
The young brave pulled in his mustang so sharply that he almost tumbled him over, and turned his head.
"Pale-faces? How came they here?"
He could hardly have been more astonished if one of the granite bowlders near him had stood up and said, "Good-morning." So far as he could have guessed, the nearest white man was many hundreds of miles away, and his nation was at peace with them for the time; but here were three of the hated race standing in the road to cut off his retreat and that of his sisters.
"THE FOREMOST LEVELLED HIS GUN STRAIGHT AT RED WOLF."
Three tall, brawny, evil-looking pale-faces with rifles in their hands, and the foremost of them was levelling his gun straight at Red Wolf, and shouting, "Surrender, you red-skinned coyote, or I'll put a pill into ye."
An Indian brave like the son of Many Bears might deem it an honor to be named after the large, dangerous wolf he had killed in single fight, with only his knife, but to be called a coyote, a miserable prairie wolf, jackal, was a bitter insult, and that was what it was meant for. He had left his carbine in the camp, but his long lance was in his hand, and his knife and revolver were in his belt.
What could one young brave do against three such powerful and well-armed white men?
"Ni-ha-be!" exclaimed Rita.