CHAPTER XXIII

GUESTS OF THE CHIEF

There was much to think about, much to tell during the next few hours. Over and over again, Sandy related the story of his capture, lingering over certain details which lent themselves to dramatic exploitation.

“I was certain that you were dead,” he told Dick for the hundredth time. “I saw them carry your body away and I could have sworn that there wasn’t a breath of life in it. If ever there was a corpse that looked——”

“Forget about it,” Dick hastily interrupted. “I’m pretty much alive now—and that’s all that matters. When you come to think of it, we’ve been more than fortunate. How we’ve managed to get out of this scrape without suffering seriously is a mystery to me. We’ve lost a little weight, a little sleep, a little skin and cuticle here and there, but——”

“And we’ve lost the mine,” Sandy interrupted him.

“To whom?” Dick demanded.

“To Henderson or the Indians—I’m not sure which.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where Henderson is?”

“Why should I? I haven’t seen him, have I?”

Dick reached over and laughingly shook his friend.

“Wake up, Sandy. Of course, you have. Baptiste told me that you and Toma, Henderson and he himself all came out here on the same pack-train. He said that you cried all the time like a big baby.”

Sandy sprang to his feet, his face crimson with rage.

“He’s a liar! Maybe they came out with us all right, but if he says that he’s—he’s mistaken. I didn’t! I swear it, Dick. Toma will vouch for me. I was a bit hysterical, of course and—and badly frightened. I might have moaned once or twice. You know how it is. But that’s all—positively!”

“Where Henderson an’ Baptiste now?” Toma asked, smiling furtively.

“Over at the other village. They’re both trussed up, and there’s a sentry guarding them. I’d hate to be in their shoes.”

“Serves ’em right,” growled Sandy.

“So I don’t see why we can’t get complete and undisputed possession of the mine. We’ve won out. Sandy. Just think of it—not a single obstacle in the road.”

“And you think the Indians won’t want it—won’t molest us if we go back there?”

“Exactly.”

Dick gazed dreamily through the tepee opening. The late afternoon sunlight fell radiantly across the earth. Through the trees at the far side of the meadow he caught sight of the rippling, blue waters of the lake.

“Do you know,” he spoke earnestly, “there’s a certain thing I’d like to do, if you fellows are willing.”

“What is it?”

“Show our appreciation and gratitude to the Indians in some definite way,” responded Dick. “I guess we all realize the extent of our indebtedness. We owe them everything—our lives, the mine, the right to go and come unmolested. We’ve gained their friendship and their respect; we have them on our side to help us. I’m confident that they’ll prove to be as loyal friends as anyone could expect.”

“I’d rather have them our friends than our enemies,” shivered Sandy.

“So would I. And I’m going to make a proposal. Let’s divide our ownership in the mine with them, all of us sharing equally in the profits.”

“But they don’t care for money,” protested Sandy. “Gold! What does it mean to them? Nothing! It would be a whole lot more sensible to stake them to a winter’s grub-stake. I think they’d appreciate it more.”

“That’s exactly what I’m coming to,” declared Dick. “My proposal is to divide the property in this way: We’ll own a half interest, the Indians the other half. It will be necessary to appoint a guardian for the Indians. This guardian will look after their interest and——”

“Spend their money!” laughed Sandy.

“Sure. Buy them the things they really need and can enjoy—food, guns, knives, traps, clothing. As long as the mine continues to produce, they’ll never, never want for any of these things.”

“It sounds all right. It would work out all right, too, if only we could find an honest, absolutely trustworthy guardian.”

“What about the Royal North West Mounted,” suggested Dick.

“By George! You have it. They’ll be the guardians!” Sandy rose in his enthusiasm and smote Toma a resounding whack. “What do you think of it, old sober-face? We haven’t heard from you yet.”

“I think ’em mighty fine idea,” their guide responded quickly.

The chief’s son appeared at this juncture and smiled at them through the opening.

“Come,” he requested gutturally.

“I think he wants us to accompany him back to his own village,” said Dick, when they had hurried outside.

This proved to be the case. Through the brilliant, warm sunshine of late afternoon they followed the lithe young native along the path that led back to the first and larger village. Arriving there, the boys were escorted directly to the chief’s tepee, where a large crowd had gathered. The chief himself, now fully arrayed in resplendant regal garb, awaited their coming. As the small party drew up before him, he advanced solemnly, raised one arm in a commanding gesture and everyone sat down, including the chief’s son and the three boys.

“What’s the old beggar going to do now?” Sandy whispered.

“I don’t know,” Dick scratched his head in perplexity. “It’s probably a meeting of some sort.”

Toma leaned over and nudged Dick in the ribs.

“Indians make ready for big feast. Look!”

A corpulent, kindly-looking squaw, closely followed by four Indian girls, appeared suddenly in their midst, carrying huge trays or platters, which were heaped high with what looked like roasted venison. The first tray was placed on the ground in front of the chief, the next before the boys, while the remaining three were deposited at different points of vantage amongst the assembly. The hostess with her four comely helpers disappeared, only to return a moment later, bearing other trays piled with food.

Altogether it was a novel experience. It was the first time that the boys had ever attended a regal function of this kind, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. At the conclusion of the feast, the crowd fell back, forming itself in a wide circle. Within the unoccupied center space strode three grotesquely-attired braves, carrying a short section of a hollow log, over one end of which moose-hide had been tightly stretched.

The booming notes of the crude, home-made drum trembled forth its invitation to the dance. A weird, unearthly yowling was struck up. Warrior after warrior leaped into the cleared space and began spinning about, to the accompaniment of a yip-yip-yihing that reminded Dick of the howling of wolves.

Through the long evening and late into the night the dance continued, growing more hideous and noisy with each passing hour. So violently did a number of the participants disport themselves that they dropped to the ground in utter exhaustion, but leaping up again as soon as they had recovered sufficiently to make such an effort possible.

Dick and Sandy had grown weary of watching long before the dance broke up, yet as guests of honor they hesitated about making known their wish to retire for the night.

“I’m so sleepy I can’t hold my head up much longer,” Sandy declared. “But just look at Toma—he’s enjoying every minute of it. I honestly believe the old boy is anxious to get out there himself.”

Hearing the remark, the guide turned a flushed, excited face toward Sandy and grinned good-naturedly.

“You bet! I like go there myself. Mebbe sometime I show you how good I make ’em like that dance.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” answered Sandy.

Squaws and children kept adding fresh fuel to the three huge campfires that had been kindled within the dancing space. In their bright glare there came presently a group of Indians, attired in complete war regalia, and closely following them, still another group, half-carrying, half-dragging two pitiable, quaking forms.

Dick’s heart seemed to stand still when he had recognized the identity of the two victims—no other than Henderson and Baptiste La Lond! With a shaking finger, he pointed them out to Sandy and Toma.

“Great Caesar! I hope the Indians are not going to torture them right here in front of our eyes,” Sandy exclaimed.

The approach of the group of warriors had been the signal for the dance to cease, although the drum still kept up a low, muffled roll. Dick turned to Toma.

“What do you think they’re about to do, Toma?” he quavered.

“Me not sure yet.”

“But will they kill them?”

The guide shook his head.

“Mebbe tomorrow morning—but not tonight. Tonight I think chief an’ brave fighting men hold big meeting to decide what they do. Pretty sure, Baptiste, Henderson no get killed tonight.”

“Yes, it’s a meeting,” cried Sandy. “See—they’re all sitting down. Look, Dick, the chief is rising to his feet. Toma—run over and find out what they’re going to do.”

When Toma returned, nearly an hour later, the meeting had ended and the two prisoners were being dragged back to their former prison.

“I no find out very much,” he greeted them. “Indians make different talk from my people. I hear only few words I understand. I find out just enough know that they take ’em Baptiste, Henderson long way off tomorrow.”

“What did the chief do when he walked over and stood in front of them?” asked Sandy. “From here it looked as if he had stooped over to cut or untie their ropes.”

“I not understand that part,” replied Toma. “Chief stoop down all right but he no untie. He give Baptiste, Henderson each one little canoe small like my hand. Then he walk away again an’ pretty soon Indians take them bad fellow back to tepee.”

“The canoes must signify something,” mused Dick. “They’re symbols of some kind. It would be interesting to know.”

That night the boys slept in a large tepee that had been pitched near the shore of the lake. It was late when they awoke. Dick scrambled out of his rabbit-robe and hurried outside. A loud clamor, coming from the center of the village, increased in volume as he stood there shading his eyes with his hand.

Toma and Sandy came bustling out a short time later and the three boys stood watching the dense throng, milling about the space where the feast and dance had taken place on the previous night.

“Wonder what’s up?” said Sandy. “They’re making more noise than a house full of huskies. I’ll bet everybody forgot to go to bed last night.”

“Perhaps the village executioner is getting ready to sharpen his hatchet,” guessed Dick.

“Ugh!” shivered Sandy. “I’d almost forgotten about that. It’s one event that I don’t intend to witness. You fellows can go if you like—but please count me out. My father went to a ‘hanging’ once in England, and he used to wake up nights for months afterward and would lay there thinking about it.”

The approach of the chief’s son cut short any further comment on the impending tragedy. The young Indian greeted them cordially, pointed to the glistening waters of the lake, and proceeded to disrobe. With a whoop of delight, Sandy commenced to follow his example.

“Come on, Toma!” Dick cried. “We’ll join them. I haven’t had a decent bath for—let’s see—how long is it?”

“For years!” jibed Sandy. “I reckon you’re about the dirtiest prospector that ever struck these parts.” Dick repaid Sandy for the insult by bouncing a small pebble off his defamer’s head. A moment later they were engaged in a friendly scuffle, when a warning shout from Toma drew their attention.

“Henderson!”

Less than eighty yards behind them the outlaw, a heavy club in each hand, battled his way through the crowd. His towering form plunged this way and that in an effort to shake himself free of the two or three swarthy figures that still clung to him. Like a madman he fought forward fifteen or twenty yards, then went down suddenly before a concerted rush that literally tramped him in the sand under the infuriated feet of the mob.

“He was a fool to try it,” said Sandy. “How in the dickens did he ever manage to free himself of the rope in the first place? Whew! He’s a regular human tornado!”

“They were getting ready to take the prisoners away somewhere, by the looks of it. Probably he was untied for a moment, and he saw his chance,” Dick replied.

“He’ll never have another one,” Sandy prophesied. “I’ll bet they’ll watch him so closely from now on, they’ll all need glasses for their worn-out eyes. I hope he didn’t kill any of them.”

A splash in the water near at hand recalled their forgotten swim, and the two boys looked up just as the chief’s son came blowing to the surface a few feet from shore.

“He’s a cool one,” admired Dick. “He didn’t pay any more attention to the struggle back there just now than he would to a dog fight.”

Sandy kicked off his moccasins and socks and paused to wriggle his toes in the sand.

“I’m very anxious to know what they intend to do with Baptiste and Henderson. Toma, don’t you suppose you could find out. You said last night that you could understand a few words of what they said at the meeting. Why don’t you try to question the chief’s son?”

“Bye-’n’-bye I speak to him,” promised Toma. “But why you worry so much ’bout them?”