And to prove it—perhaps, too, by way of bolstering up his courage—he cursed the redskins with a string of blistering oaths till he was out of breath.
The captive needed no explanation of the situation. He knew that the soldiers had failed to round up and drive back to the reservation a band of the Utes that had split from the main body and taken to the hills. By some unlucky chance or evil fate he had come straight from Bear Cat to their night camp.
The Utes left Houck pegged out to the ground while they sat at a little distance and held a pow-wow. The outlaw knew they were deciding his fate. He knew them better than to expect anything less than death. What shook his nerve was the uncertainty as to the form it would take. Like all frontiersmen, he had heard horrible stories of Apache torture. In general the Utes did not do much of that sort of thing. But they had a special grudge against him. What he had done to one of them had been at least a contributory cause of the outbreak that had resulted so disastrously for them. He would have to pay the debt he owed. But how? He sweated blood while the Indians squatted before the fire and came to a decision.
The council did not last long. When it broke up Houck braced his will to face what he must. It would not be long now. Soon he would know the worst.
Two of the braves went up the hill toward the cavvy. The rest came back to their captive.
They stood beside him in silence. Houck scowled up at them, still defiant.
“Well?” he demanded.
The Utes said nothing. They stood there stolid. Their victim read in that voiceless condemnation an awful menace.
“Onload it,” he jeered. “I’m no squaw. Shoot it at me. Jake Houck ain’t scared.”
Still they waited, the father of Black Arrow with folded arms, a sultry fire burning in his dark eyes.