no sign.

Then he spoke again. This time his talk was briefer and the
interpreter's task seemed easier.

"Great Chief say him sorry for white man talk. Him come. Him good
friend to white man. Him old. Him very old. White man not go. Then
him say him finish. Him mak' wise talk to young men. Young men
listen. No good. Young men impatient. Young men say speak white man.
Speak plenty. Him not go? Then young man kill 'em all dead. So.
Thunder-Cloud sorry. Heap sorry."

A shadowy smile flitted across Kars' rugged face. It found a
reflection in the faces of all his comrades. Even Charley's contempt
found a similar expression.

Kars abruptly stood up. His great size brought him within inches of
the low, flat roof. His eyes had suddenly hardened. His strong jaws
were set. He no longer addressed himself to the aged chief. His eyes
were directed squarely into the eyes of the mean-looking interpreter.
Nor did he use any pigeon English to express himself now.

"See right here, you neche," he cried, his tones strong, and full of
restrained force. "You can hand this on to that darn old bunch of
garbage you call a great chief. The play Louis Creal figgers on is
played right out. He murdered Allan Mowbray to keep this gold to
himself. Well, this gold ain't his, any more than it's mine. It's for
those who got the grit to take it. If he's looking for fight he's
going to get it plenty--maybe more than he's needing. We're taking no
chances. We're right here to fight--if need be. We're here to stop.
We're no quitters. We'll go when we fancy, and when we do the news of
this strike goes with us. Louis Creal tried to murder me here, and
failed, and took a bath instead. Well, if he's hoss sense he'll get it
his game's played. If he don't see it that way, he best do all he
knows. You an' this darn old scallawag have got just five minutes to
hit the trail clear of this camp. The whole outfit of you. Guess you
wouldn't get that much time only for the age of this bunch of the
tailings of a misspent life. Clear. Clear quick--the whole darn
outfit."

All the dignity and formality of an Indian pow-wow were banished in a
moment. The interpreter conveyed the briefest gist of the white man's
words, even as he hastily scrambled to his feet. Kars' tone and manner
had impressed him as forcibly as his words. He was eager enough to get
away. The old man, too, was on his feet far quicker than might have
been