Onotawah bowed his head and said nothing.
Then he seemed to dismiss him, and the proud chief walked out of the
teepee like a disconsolate schoolboy.
Instantly Shalah turned to me and inquired about my wounds. He looked
at the hole in my arm and at my scorched legs, and from his belt took a
phial of ointment, which he rubbed on the former. He passed his cool
hands over my brow, and felt the beating of my heart.
"You are weary, brother, and somewhat scarred, but there is no grave
hurt. What of the Master?"
I told him of Ringan's end. He bent his head, and then sprang up and
held his hands high, speaking in a strange tongue. I looked at his
eyes, and they were ablaze with fire.
"My people slew him," he cried. "By the shades of my fathers, a score
shall keep him company as slaves in the Great Hunting-ground."
"Talk no more of blood," I said. "He was amply avenged. 'Twas I who
slew him, for he died to save me. He made a Christian end, and I will
not have his memory stained by more murders. But oh, Shalah, what a man
died yonder!"
He made me tell every incident of the story, and he cried out,
impassive though he was, at the sword-play in the neck of the gorge.
"I have seen it," he cried. "I have seen his bright steel flash and men
go down like ripe fruit.
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