Lame Wolf was not
in sight at all. He might still be far from the scene, and this tall
warrior be acting as his representative. But whoever or whatever he was
he had hearty following. More than three-fourths of the wrangling
warriors in the group seemed backing him. Ray, after a few words to
Sergeant Winsor, crawled over beside his silent and absorbed young
second in command, and, bringing his glasses to bear, gazed across a low
parapet of sand long and fixedly at the turbulent throng a thousand
yards away.
"It's easy to make out Stabber," he presently spoke. "One can almost
hear that foghorn voice of his. But who the mischief is that red villain
opposing him? I've seen every one of their chiefs in the last five
years. All are men of forty or more. This fellow can't be a big chief.
He looks long years younger than most of 'em, old Lame Wolf, for
instance, yet he's cheeking Stabber as if he owned the whole outfit."
Another long stare, then again--"Who the mischief can he be?"
No answer at his side, and Ray, with the lenses still at his eyes, took
no note for the moment that Field remained so silent. Out at the front
the excitement increased. Out through the veil of surging warriors, the
loud-voiced, impetuous brave twice burst his way, and seemed at one and
the same time, in his superb poise and gesturings, to be urging the
entire body to join him in instant assault on the troops, and hurling
taunt and anathema on the besieged.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150