The terror in his heart rose less out of the fact itself than the circumstances which surrounded it. The gray dawn, the grim, copper-colored faces, the unknown torment waiting for him, stimulated his imagination. He could have faced his own kind, the cattlemen of the Rio Blanco, without this clutching horror that gripped him. They would have done what they thought necessary, but without any unnecessary cruelty. What the Utes would do he did not know. They would make sure of their vengeance, but they would not be merciful about it.
He repressed a shudder and showed his yellow teeth in a grin of defiance. “I reckon you’re right glad to see me,” he jeered.
Still they said nothing, only looked at their captive with an aspect that daunted him.
“Not dumb, are you? Speak up, some of you,” Houck snarled, fighting down the panic within him.
A wrinkled old Ute spoke quietly. “Man-with-loud-tongue die. He kill Indian—give him no chance. Indians kill him now.”
Houck nodded his head. “Sure I killed him. He’d stolen my horse, hadn’t he?”
The old fellow touched his chest. “Black Arrow my son. You kill him. He take your horse mebbe. You take Ute horse.” He pointed to the pinto. “Ute kill Man-with-loud-tongue.”
“Black Arrow reached for his gun. I had to shoot. It was an even break.” Houck’s voice pleaded in spite of his resolution not to weaken.
The spokesman for the Indians still showed an impassive face, but his voice was scornful. “Is Man-with-loud-tongue a yellow coyote? Does he carry the heart of a squaw? Will he cry like a pappoose?”
Houck’s salient jaw jutted out. The man was a mass of vanity. Moreover, he was game. “Who told you I was yellow? Where did you get that? I ain’t scared of all the damned Utes that ever came outa hell.”