The greater part of the week had elapsed since the occurrence of the scenes narrated in the previous chapter. Moss and his boy-captive had journeyed not fast, it is true, but nevertheless quite steadily, in a northwesterly direction.

“What do you think of the music?” asked the smuggler, when the boy had listened to the bedlamic din for several moments. “Not as good as an opery, but it strikes the Injun ear like the song of angels. Just over them hills are the red boys what whipped Custer last summer. It war the biggest fight we ever had in these parts. The blue-coats toed the scratch like men, an' it war a pity to shoot 'em down as we did.”

Gopher Gid started as the little pronoun that told so much fell upon his ear.

“Were you there?” he asked.

“Yes, I war thar. What are you goin' to do about it, my peewee? Keep close to me, boy,” he said, as, with a quick jerk of the rein, he brought Gopher Gid's mule close alongside. “Take everything in good-humour. Ef the Injuns rile you a little, don't let on. They're not lookin' fur me on HOSSBACK!”

The young trapper knew the meaning of his captor's emphasis, and the real destination of the cargo of whisky which he helped to destroy was now cleared up.

Moss guided his charge to a part of the village from which the bedlam seemed to rise, and almost suddenly they emerged upon the great square, where more than one famous sun-dance and act of cruel torture had taken place.

In the centre of the square rose a pole about thirty feet in height, and from the top dangled innumerable buckskin ropes, the other ends of which lay on the ground, giving them an appearance of being nearly fifty feet in length.

Hundreds of Indians of both sexes swarmed about this pole, whose use we shall presently witness. Not a white face was to be seen, and the boy trapper instinctively drew back when he first looked upon the sight.

“We're the only white skins hyar, onless—”

But Gid was not permitted to debate the mental question, for their presence was soon espied, and they found themselves surrounded by scores of Indians, clad in wild paraphernalia for the brutal rites about to commence.

Wild shouts of pleasure welcomed Timon Moss back to the Indian town. Tawny arms instantly caught his nether-limbs, and the overjoyed Indians would have jerked him from the saddle if he had not commanded them to desist. He shook the Indians off, and addressed them in a tone which caused the drums to cease beating.

He told them that the cargo of whisky intended for them had been seized by a lot of whites, and destroyed. In words that drew a smile to Gopher Gid's lips, he declared that he had fought to the bitter end, only to be overpowered after slaying some of the assailants; that he had escaped even while the noose was dangling over his head.

All this was received with shouts of triumph by the eager listeners, and when he turned his face upon Gid, the boy thought his time had come.

“I'm not goin' to give yer away,” his lips whispered. “Ye wouldn't see the sun-dance ef I did.”

Then he turned upon the Indians, and waved his hand toward the captive boy.

“The boy is Squattin' B'ar's!” he said. “His skin is white, but the Sioux will respect it because it is tied to the white chief's. The fire-water is gone, but it will soon flow in the big village. Whar's Red Cloud, Settin' Sun, an' the other chiefs?”

“Red Cloud has gone to the forts to talk to the blue-coats. Setting Sun is here. While our brother is away, the one thousand lodges of the Sioux are under Setting Sun,” continued the chief, with the haughty dignity of a king. “Squatting Bear and his little white have travelled long, Let them seek food and rest. The dancing square is not yet ready for the sun-dance. For three days our people have fasted; to-morrow the dance begins, and after that the great feast. Squatting Bear may eat, for he is our brother by adoption.”

Tanglefoot turned to Gid.

“Come, boy,” he said, “I've got a lodge hyar, an' we'll satisfy the inner man. To-morrow the fun begins.”

The Indians at once perceived that the whisky-smuggler was on the point of leaving, and began to make way. Setting Sun stepped aside, and said in an undertone—

“If the boy is Squatting Bear's friend, why does he tie his legs to the mule?”

These words, which fell upon Gopher Gid's ears, sent a thrill through every fibre, and the glance which the chief gave him made him for a moment wish to throw himself into the tawny arms, and find protection on the Sioux's breast.

But the next instant the crowd suddenly surged against the animal which the boy bestrode, and he felt the pressure of fingers on his thigh.

“So the old fellow caught you?” whispered a thrilling voice at that immortal moment. “Keep up your courage! we're all here—in the very jaws of death!”

We have said that the Sioux village contained about a thousand lodges. This is a fair estimate; they were arranged in a rude circle, and faced the square, whose four corners were marked by the lodges of the principal chiefs, Red Cloud, Tiger Tail, Setting Sun, and Hungry Wolf.

Standing in one of the stoutly-built birchen habitations, with her face pressed against a crevice, through which came the light of the distant stars, and the hubbub without, was a young Indian girl.

She was clad in half-civilised garments; her beautiful hair hung in wavy splendour down her back, and her feet, small and shapely, were encased in moccasins which had never been made for them—they fitted loosely, and in no graceful manner.

“Hush, Weeping Leaf!” said a voice so near the girl that she started back into the gloom of the lodge with a light cry of terror.

“Weeping Leaf!” she echoed; “I am not an Indian. They dyed my skin while I was raving mad; and to completely make me like them, red and barbarous, they have named me Weeping Leaf. Do I regret that I have come to such a fate? No! I came to this country on a good mission—to find my brother, cursed by a father, and driven from home to become a vagabond, they say, between Omaha and the coast. Father, who retired on half-pay, and proud of faithful service, is soon to go beyond the scene of his one great grief. I told him that I would bring Jack back for forgiveness; but he groaned, and, hiding his face in his hands, cried that Jack was dead.”

“But I know better,” she continued, with trustful emphasis. “He is not dead. I am here a captive, not only painted and dressed like an Indian girl, but called by an outlandish savage name. They shall not always keep me thus; I will find that brother. I will pay the red fiends back for the attack they made on our wagon. They have warmed a viper in Dora Lightway—one whose aims are to find her banned brother, and to deal them blows of death. I did not know that that captor of mine was so near, and still I might have known that I would not be left unguarded. Ay, stars, look down and see that I am not an Indian, because my skin is red—look down and hear the vows of vengeance which well from my heart every minute of my captivity!”

As she uttered the last word she moved to the crevice again.

“Who blows that bugle?” the girl asked, curiously, trying to catch sight of the blower; but the next moment a dark figure rose between her and the stars.

It was the burly body of the guard, and his action told the girl that he had purposely obstructed her line of vision.

The next bugle blast was broken by the voice of the Indian, who stood against the lodge.

“Dog! will you give your mouth no rest?” said the guard, angrily.

Mouseskin's eyes flashed at this, and Feel-the-Sky advanced to bestow the threatened kick.

All at once, like a panther preparing for a spring, the noisy Sioux boy dropped to the ground, and the next moment threw himself heavily upon the guard.

Dora Lightway, the girl captive, heard the collision, and saw two figures writhing and struggling in the dim light.

Like two mastiffs contending for victory, the redskins fought just without the birchen lodge. The advantage was with the boy, whose sudden charge had taken his adversary at a disadvantage.

“Ah! me, a groan! the knife on one is at work,” Dora said, with a shudder for the sounds that assailed her ears.

Then a strange silence came into the lodge.

The battle was over—but who had won?

Perhaps both the combatants lay dead.

A half hour of mental torture passed away, and Dora put her hand through the crevice—it touched the rude bar which secured the door.

Holding her breath, she worked silently at this till it fell, and then she easily stepped out.

What a thrill of joy shot through the heart of Midnight Jack's young sister.

The stars were above her; the lodge of captivity behind!

It was a moment the emotions of which cannot be described.

Near her lay the body of a man, and near to it another dark heap, but much smaller.

“They have both fallen!”

This is what Weeping Leaf said to herself.

The sounds before her told her that safety lay in the route that stretched in the opposite direction.

“Heaven guide my feet!” she fervently cried.

A shrill bugle blast at her very side almost lifted her from the ground.

With a cry of horror she turned and saw Mouseskin on his knees, blowing with all his might.

The sight decided the soldier's daughter.

“I am not free with that Indian here!”

The next moment she sprung upon the boy with the intention to do or die, and pushed him back.

At the same time she snatched the silver bugle from his lips, and struck him heavily with the singular weapon.

“Now I am free!” she cried, and still clinging to the bugle-horn, she turned from the scene, and ran beyond the cordon of wigwams.

The thought of escape lent new speed to her limbs, and she was just entering a line of cottonwoods, that stood like stately sentinels in the starlight, when a figure rose from the ground in her very path.

In an instant she saw the plumes of an Indian warrior, and halted with the famous horn drawn menacingly back.

But her right arm was caught before it could descend, and she saw a grotesque red face peering into hers.

“Go!” said a voice, and Dora was pushed on in no very gentle manner.

But the next words sent a thrill through every fibre of her frame.

“Only a poor, sneakin' Injun gal! I don't hev dealings with thet kind o' truck. I'm hyar arter a white 'un, an' I'll make the dogs open thar eyes afore to-morrow night. For I'm the Screamin' Eagle of the Smoky Roost! a reg'lar sky-scraper!”

Dora Lightway stood still like a person rooted to the ground with amazement.

She was afraid to breathe.

The man near her might be a friend.

“Who ar' ye look'n' at? Move yer boots, or the Screamin' Eagle—not Red Jingo of the Little Big-Horn—will accelerate yer pace!”

Weeping Leaf, or Dora, saw the figure step forward, as these words smote her ear.

“He cannot be my friend,” she muttered. “To him let my skin be red and not white. He's a white man, despite his disguise—one of those renegades I have often read about.”

Again the girl fled, and left the strange being alone in the path which she had lately traversed.

“I mustn't let my tongue slip any more,” mused the man, thus left near the edge of the cottonwoods. “I must be a wolf, jest like the rest of the pack. I'm the Red Jingo; the Screamin' Eagle of the Smoky Roost is lost till I get out of this pickle. Ef I war huntin' red gals, what a nice one I could hev picked up; but I want to get the white 'un, the sister of that young devil, Midnight Jack.”

“And we will get her!”

“Holy Moses!” exclaimed the speaker, starting from the apparition standing against the nearest as well as one of the largest trees. “War I talkin' aloud, Mid—no! Runnin' Water?”

“Slightly,” was the reply, as the two Indian-like figures came together and grasped hands. “You were talking about a girl—did she pass here?”

“Yes, an Indian crittur. Hev ye been to the tree?”

“No!” was the low response.

Midnight Jack, or Running Water—as the Sioux now called him—felt that he was not far from his sister. He had tracked her captors to the confines of the Sioux town; but as yet his keen eyes had not managed to discover her.

Happily, his past intercourse with hunting-parties of the red nation had given him a speaking knowledge of their language, and his companion, who knew something of almost every tribe west of the Missouri, could, as he expressed it, speak the tongue “like er native.”

It was now near midnight.

The drums had ceased to sound, and but few Indians remained in the square. The rest had sought their lodges, there to dream of the brutalities of the sun-dance, and to prepare their bodies for the endurance which many of the younger bucks had determined on in face of the assembled tribe.

“Hyar ar the ropes—strong enough to hold an ox up,” whispered Rube, as he and the road-agent began to inspect the lofty torture-pole in the dim light of the stars.

“Ye've seen the sun-dance, Mid—cuss it all! I mean Runnin' Water.”

“I have not, strange to say, but—”

“I hev,” was the interruption. “The red dogs run a knife through the thick muscles of the breast—right hyar—an' put in a good wooden skewer. To this they tie one of these ropes, an' then they dance about the pole, an' fall back with their full weight. It's terrible! Sometimes the muscles give way soon; but if they're extra tough they hold out five hours. It's a sickening sight.”

“Did you ever try it, Rube?” asked Jack.

“No; but I'd like to try the dance once.”

“You!”

“Yes, me! the Screamin' Eagle of the Smoky Roost, alias the Red Jingo of the Little Big Horn.”

Midnight Jack was silent for a moment.

“You'd better not, Rube. You'll have other use for your muscles before you get out of this devil land. Think of my sister—very near us now, no doubt. Leave the sun-dance alone; let Indians mutilate themselves.”

But the old borderer was not to be diverted by his companion's word.

In his mind he had determined to attempt the sun-dance on the morrow, and become the only white man who had submitted to the horrible torture.

Silently the two adventurers glided from the square, and sought the lodge which Setting Sun had allotted to them as visitors.

As yet the death of Sweep-the-Sky had not been discovered, and Mouseskin's trumpet was still mute.

Midnight Jack threw himself upon the scanty skins within the lodge, and soon fell asleep.

After awhile he was startled by a touch, which drew him into a sitting posture in the gloom of the hut.

“It's only me,” said a well-known voice at his ear. “We've got to do one of two things—leave the Injun shanties now, or kill Tanglefoot to-morrow.”

Midnight Jack was thoroughly awake.

“Go away without my sister? Never!” he cried. “We'll shoot Tanglefoot.”

“Before the hull tribe?”

“Yes.”

“But he's Squattin' B'ar!”

“He shall not betray us!” was the answer. “Does he suspect us, Rube?”

“Kinder so.”

“Then not for certain?”

“He's makin' up his mind fast. I b'lieve he's been watchin' us.”

At that moment a most unearthly yell rung through the village.

Our two friends sprung erect, and listened.

“What is it?” whispered Midnight Jack, whose voice was accompanied by the low clicking of the revolver which he held in his hand.

“A corpse hez been found,” was Rube's quick reply. “I've heerd that yell afore.”

The natural words, “If a murder has been committed, they may suspect us,” struggled to the road-agent's lips.

Rube did not reply, but with lips firmly set, was apparently listening to the echoes of the weird cry that had shaken the still air of the summer's night.

But he felt the full force of his companion's utterance.

“Did you hear me, Rube?” asked Midnight Jack, impatiently.

“I heerd,” was the answer, which was almost drowned by the lonely howling of some gaunt Indian dogs. “Thar's a good deal o' truth in what you said, but a 'stiff upper lip' is the motto. Thar goes the devil-cry ag'in! Gosh! it sends chills down a fellar's back.”

The cry that had first assailed their ears was now repeated—and certainly divested of none of its repulsiveness.

“I'm goin' out,” said the old borderman. “The Injuns are turnin' out, we must not stay hyar an' give 'em cause fur suspectin' us, even if murder has been done an' we are innercent.”

A moment later the disguised whites stepped out into the moonlight, and into a scene of confusion utterly indescribable.

From everywhere the Sioux were issuing from the lodges, uttering cries which confirmed Rube's explanation of the first yell. Men, women, children and dogs composed the disordered rabble that rushed toward the dancing square.

The girl-hunters joined the savages, and soon learned the true cause of the hubbub.

A young Indian stood over the rigid body of a warrior of his tribe. He was gesticulating wildly as words fell rapidly from his lips.

“Feel-the-Sky hez been found dead—knifed to the heart,” whispered Rube Rattler in an ear which he at first took to be Midnight Jack's, but the next moment, to his horror, he discovered that he had addressed a genuine Sioux warrior, who was staring amazedly into his face.

For a second that perilous error seemed to unnerve the borderer's heart, but his quick wit came to the rescue.

“The wrong ear, my brother,” he said, in Sioux. “You are not Squatting Bear.”

“Bear over there,” was the reply, and the Indian pointed to the other side of the crowd formed about the corpse and its finder. “Feel-the-Sky is dead. There are bad knives in the village.”

Rube nodded, and hastened to leave the dangerous locality, touching Midnight Jack's arm as he moved away, and without a word the twain slipped into another part of the awe-stricken group.

“White girl kill Feel-the-Sky and run off,” whispered one.

“Not strong enough.”

“White girl's quick as a cat sometimes. Catch Feel-the-Sky asleep, mebbe; find knife in the lodge. If she no kill Feel-the-Sky, who did?”

“Come! we go see.”

Determined to set their doubts at rest, the red trio stole secretly from the crowd, crossed the square, and glided toward the scene of the tussle between Feel-the-Sky and his assassin.

“Stay hyar, or meet me in the lodge,” whispered Rube, this time at the right ear. “Some young bucks are up to su'thin'.”

He had caught enough of the young red's words to excite his curiosity, and leaving Midnight Jack in the crowd, glided off after the trio just mentioned.

Setting Sun had said that the startling death should be investigated in the morning, and before the beginning of the sun-dance.

Upon this the crowd began to disperse, watched with interest by Midnight Jack. The female portion especially came under his scrutiny, for he was always seeking one figure, dearer than all others on earth to him.

Suddenly a voice came from a dusky-faced group near, which chilled the life-current in the road-agent's heart.

“They're here—two of them,” said that startling voice, not in the Sioux but the English tongue.

“Right in the camp, Golden George! I know 'em too; but Setting Sun an' the rest never dream of the facts.”

“They're fools!”

“Who? Midnight Jack and the Eagle?”

“Yes. But what brought 'em hyar?”

“The same thing what brought me, I suspect—the prettiest face that ever left old Sully in a Conestoga.”

“A white gal?”

“Yes; but come on. I'll tell the story as we walk, I'm tired; jest got in. I rode all day without stopping. Am I on the right trail? Is the girl in the camp?”

How eagerly Midnight Jack leaned forward to catch the answer that fell from the lips of the squatty man, over whose head towered a crest of feathers. But it was so incoherent that it tormented him.

“Am I never to find you, Dora?” he said. “Does another man hunt you for your pretty face? If so let him stand clear of Midnight Jack.”

That the dumpy man was old Tanglefoot the road-agent was certain. His companion was straight and well built, and was attired as many Indians were, in a cavalry jacket and blue pantaloons.

The name Golden George was not unfamiliar to Midnight Jack. It told him that another foe had risen against him in the very heart of the Sioux camp.

He did not follow the train, but saw them disappear.

Thinking of his companion, he resolved to return to their lodge, and hastened from the uncomfortable spot.

The Indians on every side were rapidly seeking their wigwams again, full of the scene which they had just witnessed.

All at once Midnight Jack noticed a figure standing statue-like at the side of a lodge just ahead. The starlight fell full upon him, and the road-agent saw that his face was turned away.

“Now, Golden George, I'll turn the tables,” said Midnight Jack, and the next moment, with the tread of the panther, he had glided over the well-trodden ground to the person's side.

The heavy “navy” was clutched in the road-agent's hand, and before the imperilled person was aware of his presence, the muzzle of the pistol was thrust against the back of his head.

“There's death at your brain, Golden George!” whispered Midnight Jack, as his left hand dropped on the startled man's shoulder, and prevented him from turning round. “One word of warning and I'll burst your brain-pan. You are a man of your word—so am I. Swear to leave this Indian town immediately—nor to interfere with me here—or by the gold of Ophir, I'll kill you now where we stand! No cringing! Swear! or the bullet!”

The man attacked never turned his head, but his eyes flashed hate and murder, and he said through clenched teeth—

“Curse you, Midnight Jack—I swear!”

“Now go! Keep your word, Golden George!”

With the last word the revolver and hand were withdrawn, and Golden George moved off without a reply.

“I wasn't mistaken!” Midnight Jack murmured, looking after the retreating figure. “It's only a question of time. One of us will have to kill the other some day. Now, Tanglefoot, look out for number one.”

Then he added, after a pause—

“The boy! I had almost forgotten him. I wonder if he understood my words? Tanglefoot intends to serve him like the wolf serves the fawn. When did that villain spare a captive?”

“Yes, when, Midnight Jack?”

The road-agent turned.

Rube Rattler stood before him, and the next instant the two friends met again.

The fearless adventurers walked silently to their lodge and entered.

There, standing in the gloom, they talked in low whispers.

Rube had made an important discovery. The dead Indian had been Dora's captor; this he had learned by following the three young bucks from the square, but beyond this he had not been able to proceed far.

“Every soul in an Indian town must be present at a sun-dance—captives and all?” said Midnight Jack. “So in all probability we shall have to go through it. But there is one who won't trouble us.”

“Yes, I know him; he keeps his word inviolate. We have but Tanglefoot to deal with.”

“He's the only one.”

“And now I'd rather harbour the thought of facing twenty Sioux than him to-morrow.”

“I'm not goin' to cross the river till I come to it,” said Rube, with a smile, which his companion could not see.

A minute later the two friends had fallen back upon their scanty pallets, and soon nothing but the regular breathing of the sleepers was heard in the gloom.

They did not see the burly figure that crawled from the rear of their lodge, and some distance away rose erect like a man.

It walked hurriedly through one of the narrow Indian streets, and entered a commodious lodge, which bore a resemblance to the tepees of the chiefs.

“Boy!” said the man, in a low tone. “Gopher Gid, are ye still with me?”

“Yes,” came a boyish voice from the darkest corner of the tepee.

“Good!”

“What was the commotion about?”

“Two Injuns fell afoul o' each other—that was all; and one got a knife in his heart;” laughed the burly man. “You will see more than a sun-dance to-morrow, boy.”

If Tanglefoot could have seen the expression that came to the little trapper's face as he uttered the last sentence, his snaky eyes would have shone with unwonted light.

“More than the sun-dance?” muttered the boy. “What can he mean?”

The first flush of dawn that stole up the valley found Red Cloud's village astir.

As Setting Sun had promised, the mystery surrounding Feel-the-Sky's death was first taken up; but the real detectives found themselves at fault from the first, and soon gave over the hunt.

The entire population of Red Cloud's town thronged about the square, in the centre of which the pole of torture stood.

Midnight Jack and Rube stood shoulder to shoulder not far from the spot where Tanglefoot and Gopher Gid, seated on Indian ponies, watched the scene.

The twain saw that the boy's feet were bound together under the belly of the little beast which he bestrode, and they noticed, too, that the animal's head was entirely bridleless.

“He's fixed Gopher to stay with him,” whispered Midnight Jack, when an opportunity offered itself. “The little chap takes it coolly. He's getting interested in the proceedings. He has forgotten we are all here.”

Then the speaker's eyes wandered through the savage crowds that were visible on every side.

But the only white face that greeted him was Gopher Gid's. Old Tanglefoot, the gin-smuggler, was arrayed in full Indian dress, one side of his face painted blue and striped with white, the other yellow and striped with black.

Such discolouring rendered his face perfectly hideous, and his expression was not softened by his ever-restless eyes.

The ceremony of the sun-dance opened at that moment when the god of day reached the meridian.

At a given signal six young bucks sprung into the open space and seized the ropes that dangled from the top of the pole.

Gopher Gid noticed that blood was streaming in profusion from knife cuts on their backs and breasts.

Several were accompanied by friends or assistants, who assisted in passing the thongs into the gashes under the tough sinews, and out again, where they were knotted to the main ropes, so that they would not slip out.

For several hours this disgusting ceremony proceeded.

Gopher Gid took notice of everything that passed around him; he watched the show of endurance in the ring until he turned his face away with a shudder.

At last a cry announced that one of the actors had broken through the flesh and fallen to the ground; there he lay like one dead, under the broiling heat of the sun. Another fainted from sheer exhaustion, and was released amid the plaudits of his friends, but the remaining four promised to eclipse Rain-in-the-Face's famous dance of four hours.

“Thar's my chance!” ejaculated Rube Rattler, as one of the self-torturers was borne from the scene of his terrible ordeal. “We've got to do suthin' to keep our reputation up. The dogs hev been eyein' us fur hours, sayin', 'Why don't you fellars show yer grit?' Keep an eye on Tanglefoot. Ef they'll let us alone, I'll beat Rain-in-the-Face's time all holler!”

Before Midnight Jack could restrain his companion he was bounding toward the pole, in his hand a bloody knife which, with a well-counterfeited Indian yell, he had drawn from beneath the old cavalry jacket that loosely fitted his lank body.

Wild applause greeted Rube when he was recognised by the Indians as one of the visiting Teton Sioux, and in the presence of all he thrust one of the bloody wooden skewers beneath the garment and made it fast there. His yells revived the fainting four hanging half dead from their torture ropes, and he frantically threw himself back as if in proud consciousness of his strong sinews.

Old Tanglefoot's eyes flashed when he recognised the new man at the sun-dance.

“Is the keg-breaker crazy?” he murmured. “Why, he needn't make a-showin' of his grit. Bless my blossoms if he'd do thet if he knowed thet Timon Moss was so near!”

On, on went that mad sun-dance, and the sun crept westward as if reluctantly. One by one the Indians of the first lot retired victorious from the horrible ring, and others took their places, but the Red Jingo still held out.

He entered upon his fifth hour amid the yells of the whole assemblage.

Midnight Jack looked on in utter amazement. Was the man mad? had he fainted? or was he dead?

He longed to go forward and settle this mental conundrum, but the eyes of Squatting Bear admonished him to stand still.

More than once during that eventful day their not too friendly glances had met.

If Midnight Jack had doubted his discovery by the gin-trader, he no longer doubted.

“Thar's some shenanagan about that fellar's holdin' out,” ejaculated Tanglefoot in a tone that roused Gopher Gid. “He's not hangin' fair. Did you ever take pertic'lar notice of him, boy?”

“Me? No!”

“Go an' look right into his face,” was the unexpected reply. “Not an Indian'll tech you, fur ye're under Squattin' B'ar's pertection. Thar I've cut the foot-cords. Go an' look at the skunk!”

Gopher Gid felt a thrill of joy shoot through his heart as the cords about his feet were severed, and he lightly sprung to the ground.

“White Fish is goin' to look at the braves,” cried Tanglefoot, and a voice of approval replied from the chief's lips.

Gopher Gid did not hesitate, but crossed the space, and halted beside the Red Jingo, whose body, thrown back, was trying the strength of the buffalo-cords.

All at once the eyes opened, the lips unclosed, and these low words fell upon Gopher's ears;—

“Keep a stiff upper lip, boy! I'm the Screamin' Eagle of Smoky Roost—the Thunderbolt of the Dark-edged Cloud—a reg'lar sky-scraper!”

With a cry of astonishment Gopher Gid started back.

“He knows 'un!” ejaculated Timon Moss; “the time fur the fun to begin is hyar. Now I'll explode a bomb-shell in this durned Injun camp.”

Midnight Jack, without apparently noticing his eager enemy, drew his revolver.

All at once Tanglefoot drew rein, and was turning the pony's head toward Midnight Jack, when a loud cry came from beyond the crowd on the east side of the square.

The peculiar intonation caused no little commotion; it startled the chiefs, and Setting Sun turned to that quarter and commanded the crowd to make way for the young Indian who was advancing at a quick gait, holding two glittering objects above his head.

An exclamation, heard by his nearest companions, fell from the road-agent's lips as the savage glided past and bounded into the square.

“My pistols! I must have hidden them in an Indian cache!”

Setting Sun, and the other head chiefs, uttered exclamations of wonder, as they advanced upon the Indian who had halted near Tanglefoot.

At once thrown into a state of great excitement, the crowd began to surge forward, but the voice of Tiger Tail drove them back.

“Where did Mouseskin find silver pistols?” demanded Setting Sun, as he jerked the ornamented weapons from the young Indian's hands.

“In the hollow of the tree where the chipmunk hides,” was the response.

The four chiefs instantly came together, and Midnight Jack saw his pistols passed from one to another to elicit expressions of praise from the red lips, for they were silver-mounted and polished to a high degree.

“A name in the white man's talk!” suddenly cried Setting Sun, pointing to the inscription, “Midnight Jack,” which was engraven on the barrel of each. “When did the white man hide his pretty pistols in the hollow tree? Ah! our white brother can tell us his name.”

He turned to Tanglefoot as he spoke.

“I'll tell you whose they are,” he said, as he took the weapon from Setting Sun's hand.

“Well do I know these shootin'-irons,” and he held the weapons over his head.

Then Tanglefoot rose erect in the stirrups, and his right hand was suddenly extended till the dyed finger pointed straight at the form of Midnight Jack.

“Thar stands afore us the man who hid the pistols!” he cried. “He could not pull the wool over Tanglefoot's eyes. Come out an' face the music. An' thar hangs the other, playin' Injun, an' foolin' ye all!”

Tanglefoot's arm described a crescent, and the finger was now pointing at the Red Jingo hanging apparently lifeless from the torture-cord.

Midnight Jack had advanced a pace from his position.

There was now a flash in his eyes, which few who noticed it had never seen before.

“I am here!” he cried, in the Sioux tongue, “and YOU are THERE!”

The road-agent's right hand shot upward as he spoke the last sentence, and the final word was drowned by the loud report of his revolver.

The crack was followed by a loud cry; the uplifted silver-mounted pistol fell over the pony's head, and old Tanglefoot, with a headlong pitch, went to the ground.

Rube Rattler straightened in an instant, for he had witnessed the entire tragedy.

“Stand back!” said the road-agent, calmly, wheeling upon the yelling redskins, now surging forward. “What is that white-livered dog that he should live a chief among the Sioux with his hands reddened with our brother's blood? Let him be thrown to the buzzards that watch in the sky for the carrion. Will our brethren listen, or must Running Water, to defend the deed, which by Indian law he has righteously done, shoot them down, and then die himself, knife in hand, upon them?”

The road-agent's words, uttered in good Sioux, had a startling effect.

They stayed the excited crowd; the wild cries for blood grew still; and Setting Sun advanced toward the daring man.

“Go on!” cried the chief. “We will listen to our Teton brother.”

“I have but little to say,” was the response, the speaker's eyes dancing with delight at the triumph he had gained. “Squatting Bear came to our lodges long ago. He brought a cargo of fire-water among us. He lived with us till he married one of our women, but we would not call him chief. In the land of the Teton Sioux he began to steal; he treated his Indian wife badly, and one night he slew her in the little wigwam; not only that, but he slew a brother. The red wife was Running Water's sister. He swore revenge; he has trailed the white Sioux night and day—he and his brother, the Red Jingo. He has been found, and the fire-water chief lies dead before you. It is the law of the red-man that the nearest of kin must avenge. We have done that; in the camp of the southern Sioux we have appeased our sister's spirit. What say Setting Sun and the chiefs? Has Running Water broken the laws that our fathers made long ago?”

“By the jumpin' jingo, what a speech!” ejaculated the Red Jingo, as Midnight Jack finished, and with folded arms, after the Indian fashion, waited for a reply.

He was the observed of all observers.

He stood erect in the hour of his victory, knowing that the lips which had almost denounced him to death were speechless.

Beyond a slight murmur of rough applause that had greeted his speech no sound followed it.

“Go on!” he cried to the four chiefs, who were looking undecided into each other's eyes.

“I say the same!” suddenly broke in a harsh voice, and Rube Rattler sprung back from the cord which he threw away. “We have tracked the white dog down, an' Runnin' Water has carried out the law of our people.”

And to Gopher Gid, near whom his spring had landed him, he said, in a startling undertone—

“We've got the winnin' kerds, boy. I'm still the Screamin' Eagle of Smoky Roost!”

“The law of the Indians has not been broken,” said Setting Sun at last. “Squatting Bear is not red. Red Cloud made him a chief; he got not his feathers on the war-path; he never hung in the sun-dance; his blood is not Sioux blood, it is thinner than the blood of our people. What say our people? Has our Teton brother broken the law?”

An imperious wave of the hand accompanied the Indian's question, and the wild yell that answered it told Midnight Jack that his terrible doings were approved.

He walked forward, and unflinchingly took the extended hands of the chiefs, and saw Gopher Gid staring at him with distended eyes.

“Shall the white dog lie on Sioux ground?” said one of the older chiefs, bestowing a look of disgust upon Tanglefoot's body.

“No!” thundered Setting Sun. “Let him be carried up among the trees, that the flesh-eaters of the sky shall not come to earth to devour him. To the trees with him! Where are our people?”

A few moments sufficed for some Indians to place Tanglefoot upon his pony, and, with a gleam of joy in his eyes, Gopher Gid saw him borne away.

The sun went down.

Its last rays saw the opening of the feast that follows the sun-dance; it was Midnight Jack that glided through the village, hunting for his sister Dora.

Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm, and he beheld Mouseskin standing at his side.

“Squatting Bear had friends; they are whispering together. They say that the skin of our Teton brother is white, but they lie. They are mad! they swear to avenge the death of the white Sioux.”

“Not out of the fire yet!” muttered the road-agent, and then he drew the boy aside.

“You are our brother?”

“Yes; the whispering Indians lie. Squatting Bear once kicked Mouseskin.”

“You know all the lodges, Mouseskin?”

“All!”

“Where is the white girl that Feel-the-Sky brought to the wigwam?”

The Sioux boy started at the mention of his victim's name, and glanced around suspiciously.

Then he came up to Midnight Jack with a look of trust in his eyes.

“Will Running Water keep the words that Mouseskin gives him?” asked the boy.

“Running Water will keep them.”

Then from the lips of the Sioux fell the story of his fight with Feel-the-Sky; his discomfiture by Dora followed.

Midnight Jack listened without a word until the boy finished.

“But the captive?”

“She it was who struck Mouseskin, and took his horn.”

“Ah?”

The road-agent started back.

Could the boy have spoken truly? Was his young sister alone in the woods of Sioux-land, and liable to fall into the hands of Golden George?

The thought roused Midnight Jack.

“Where is my brother?”

“Down at the dog-feast.”

“And the white boy?”

Before Mouseskin could reply there came from the Cottonwood forest the barking of Myriad Indian dogs.

“What means that, Mouseskin?” cried the road-agent, grasping the red boy's arm.

“The white boy!” exclaimed the little Sioux. “The red boys have taken him into the woods; they have tied him to a tree, and set the hungry dogs upon him.”

The road-agent darted suddenly away, leaving Mouseskin bewildered in his tracks.