Part 63 (1/2)

They danced in exact time to the two-measure of the drum that was pounded by Blackhawk. Three times round the central post with the s.h.i.+eld they danced, then the drum stopped, and they joined in a grand final war-whoop and squatted in a circle within that of the guests.

The Great Woodp.e.c.k.e.r now arose--his mother had to be told who it was--and made a characteristic speech:

”Big Chiefs, Little Chiefs, and Squapooses of the Sanger Indians: A number of things has happened to rob this yer nation of its n.o.ble Head Chief; they kin never again expect to have his equal, but this yer a.s.sembly is for to pick out a new one. We had a kind of whack at it the other day, but couldn't agree. Since then we had a hard trip, and things has cleared up some, same as puttin' Kittens in a pond will tell which one is the swimmer, an' we're here to-day to settle it.”

Loud cries of ”How--how--how--how--” while Blackhawk pounded the drum vigorously.

”O' course different ones has different gifts. Now who in all this Tribe is the best runner? That's Little Beaver.”

(”How--how--how--how--how--” and drum.)

”That's my drum, Ma!” said Guy aside, forgetting to applaud.

”Who is the best trailer and climber? Little Beaver, again, I reckon.”

(”How--how--how--how--” and drum.)

(”He can't see worth a cent!” whispered Guy to his mother.)

”Who was it won the trial of grit at Garney's grave? Why, it was Little Beaver.”

(”An' got pretty badly scared doin' it!” was Guy's aside.)

”But who was it shot the Cat-Owl plumb in the heart, an' fit the Lynx hand to hand, not to speak of the c.o.o.n? Little Beaver every time.”

(”He never killed a Woodchuck in his life, Ma!”)

”Then, again, which of us can lay all the others on his back? Little Beaver, I s'pose.”

(”Well, I can lick Char-less, any time,” was Guy's aside.)