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.”