Zane Grey by The Spirit of the Border

fellow, to whom the chief had addressed his brief
command, acting, as guard. Observing Joe watching him as he puffed
on his new pipe, he grinned, and spoke in broken English that was
intelligible, and much of a surprise to the young man.
    "Paleface—tobac'—heap good."
    Then, seeing that Joe made no effort to follow his brother's
initiative, for Jim was fast asleep, he pointed to the recumbent
figures and spoke again.
    "Ugh! Paleface sleep—Injun wigwams—near setting sun."
    On the following morning Joe was awakened by the pain in his legs,
which had been bound all night. He was glad when the bonds were cut
and the party took up its westward march.
    The Indians, though somewhat quieter, displayed the same
carelessness: they did not hurry, nor use particular caution, but
selected the most open paths through the forest. They even halted
while one of their number crept up on a herd of browsing deer. About
noon the leader stopped to drink from a spring; his braves followed
suit and permitted the white prisoners to quench their thirst.
    When they were about to start again the single note of a bird far
away in the woods sounded clearly on the quiet air. Joe would not
have given heed to it had he been less attentive. He instantly
associated this peculiar bird-note with the sudden stiffening of
Silvertip's body and his attitude of intense listening. Low
exclamations came from the braves as they bent to catch the lightest
sound. Presently, above the murmur of the gentle fall of water over
the stones, rose that musical note once more. It was made by a bird,
Joe thought, and yet, judged by the actions of the Indians, how
potent with meaning beyond that of the simple melody of the woodland
songster! He turned, half expecting to see somewhere in the
tree-tops the bird which had wrought so sudden a change in his
captors. As he did so from close at hand came the same call, now
louder, but identical with the one that had deceived him. It was an
answering signal, and had been given by Silvertip.
    It flashed into Joe's mind that other savages were in the forest;
they had run across the Shawnees' trail, and were thus communicating
with them. Soon dark figures could be discerned against the patches
of green thicket; they came nearer and nearer, and now entered the
open glade where Silvertip stood with his warriors.
    Joe counted twelve, and noted that they differed from his captors.
He had only time to see that this difference consisted in the
head-dress, and in the color and quantity of paint on their bodies,
when his gaze was attracted and riveted to the foremost figures.
    The first was that of a very tall and stately chief, toward whom
Silvertip now advanced with every show of respect. In this Indian's
commanding stature, in his reddish-bronze face, stern and powerful,
there were readable the characteristics of a king. In his deep-set
eyes, gleaming from under a ponderous brow; in his mastiff-like jaw;
in every feature of his haughty face were visible all the high
intelligence, the consciousness of past valor, and the power and
authority that denote a great chieftain.
    The second figure was equally striking for the remarkable contrast
it afforded to the chief's. Despite the gaudy garments, the paint,
the fringed and beaded buckskin leggins—all the Indian
accouterments and garments which bedecked this person, he would have
been known anywhere as a white man. His skin was burned to a dark
bronze, but it had not the red tinge which characterizes the Indian.
This white man had, indeed, a strange physiognomy. The forehead was
narrow and sloped backward from the brow, denoting animal instincts.
The eyes were close together, yellowish-brown in color, and had a
peculiar vibrating movement, as though they were hung on a pivot,
like a compass-needle. The nose was long and hooked, and the mouth
set in a thin, cruel line. There was in the man's aspect an
extraordinary combination of ignorance, vanity, cunning and
ferocity.
    While the two chiefs held