A wise old sachem, hideously painted, drew a line on the ground at
thirty feet, facing the central fire, and with a bony finger picked out
a certain number of warriors.
Full fifty there seemed to McElroy when he opened his eyes to see them
ranged before the line, all armed with knives that shone in the glow,
and (grim irony of fate!) in the blades of some there was a familiar
stamp--H. B. C.!
"Ah! Yuagh!" called the sachem, and two young men stepped forward, toe
on the line, glanced each at a framed picture, drew up an arm, and,
"Whut-t-t t-e-e-p," whined two knives that flittered through the light
and struck quivering, one with its cool kiss on McElroy's cheek, the
other just in the edge of the slab at De Courtenay's shoulder.
A shout of derision greeted this throw, and two more took the place of
the retiring braves, this time a Runner of the Burnt Woods, wearing the
garments of the white man, but smeared with bars of red and yellow
paint across the cheeks, and a white renegade.
"A Nor'wester's man once," thought McElroy; "another DesCaut."
Again the "whut-t" of the whimpering blades, again the little impact in
the wood behind, this time with more indifferent aim; for never was
white man yet who sank or rose to Indian level in the matter of spear
or tomahawk.
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