Then he dismounted and confided his horse to the care of the officiating chief. This announced his intention of remaining to witness the renegade’s trial and doom.
A lodge was given him, food placed at his disposal, and the curtain fell upon the Crow all alone.
He did not seem to hear the loudest sound, for a gun had been discharged close to his head, and he had not exhibited the least curiosity regarding the shot.
After remaining in the Pawnee lodge for the space of an hour, Sleeping Bear raised the curtains and stepped out. The shades of night were gathering from the four cardinal points, and the mute wandered aimlessly, as it seemed, about the village.
He encountered a warrior whose age reached his own, and they walked, at the Crow’s request, toward the corral, which contained perhaps a hundred horses. These animals were newly captured or stolen ones, while the old Pawnee steeds were browsing along the banks of the Loup fork, or sleeping on the prairie near the village.
The Crow’s companion was suspicious, and he watched his nation’s guest narrowly, as they walked along, conversing by signs. Sleeping Bear did not notice the Pawnee’s suspicious nature; he seemed intent on telling the story of a famous chase after the wild horses, and at last they reached the corral.
The horses were biting and fighting each other like wild beasts, and many already bled from wounds inflicted by hoof or teeth.
Prominent among them appeared a magnificent iron-gray whose fore shoulders were branded with the letter S. This horse seemed the king of the corral, for the others fled around the inclosure at his approach, and many were cowed by his flashing eyes.
The two spectators watched the conqueror in silence, and the Pawnee’s eyes dilated with triumph, when the horse suddenly galloped toward them, and poked his neck forward at the Crow with a low whinny of delight!
The next moment the mute found his throat griped by long fingers, and the Pawnee was bearing him to the ground with quick ejaculations of success.
“The horse has betrayed the white hunter,” hissed the Indian. “He never leaves the Pawnee village, never!”
The keen edged scalping-knife quivered over the tufted head before its owner could recover his equilibrium, for the Loup’s action was the work of a single moment.