"He no hurt white man. Who?"
There was no answer to this, but the crackling began once more; the men, panting from their exertions, disappeared behind a mass of bushes, then reappeared, and soon four struggled up the remaining stretch to where Wanatoma, with folded arms, stood waiting.
The fifth held back; in the dim light, he had caught a glimpse of a huge dusky form from which now and then came an angry growl.
"How!" exclaimed Wanatoma. He solemnly shook the hands extended toward him. "Cap Slater's men! What for you come—not to see Indian?"
"Jist to hev a few words with ye," laughed one. He was a big powerful man with a deep voice. "Hey, Tom Smull," he yelled, "don't be skeered. Some o' me fren's, Wanna; Alf Griffin, Bart Reeder an' Dan Woodle. Come up here, Tom Smull! 'Member me, Injun—Jim Reynolds?"
"Hey thar, make 'im tie up that critter; he's big nuff to chaw a man's leg off," came from Tom Smull.
"Dog no hurt." Wanatoma looked at his visitors searchingly. "You have something to say to Indian? What?"
"I kin tell ye mighty quick," began Griffin, but a sharp thrust in the ribs stopped him.
"We jist wanted to ask ye a few questions, friendly like." Jim Reynolds grinned, shot a glance over his shoulder at the indistinct form of Tom Smull, and patted Wanatoma's shoulder. "Me an' you has allus been good friends, eh?" he asked.
The Indian nodded gravely and walked forward, speaking sharply to the Great Dane.