At first it was the stamp-dance*, harmless enough, with bending forms
and palms extended to the central fire and the ceaseless "Ah-a, ah-a-a,
ah-a," capable of a thousand intonations and the whole gamut of
suggestion and portent, blood-chilling in its slow excitement.
*I have witnessed this.--V. R.
Without the circle the squaws fought and quarrelled over the portion of
liquor doled out to them by their lords, and their clamour was worse
than the rest.
No sleep came to the two white men lying at the foot of a tree to the
west of the camp, with a guard pacing slowly between them and liberty.
Instead, thoughts were seething like dalle's foam in the mind of each.
If only this giant guard might drink deep enough of the libations of
the others,--who knew?--there might be the faint chance of escape for
which they had watched ceaselessly since leaving Red River.
But, with the irony of fate, this one Indian became the model warrior
of the tribe. As the confusion and uproar grew in intensity, one after
another joined the dancing circle, until it seemed that every brave in
the camp was leaping around the fire. Blue-eyed Indians, Bois-Brules,
Nakonkirhirinons, they circled and uttered the monotonous "Ah-a, ah-a,"
and in the light could be seen the white lock on the temple of Bois
DesCaut.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217