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