His was not the song of the broken derelict, but of
the barbarous and triumphant warrior, and as he sang he gathered fire
and strength.

The circle of white faces grew around the old chief. Every loiterer was
there, and others came back. Not one spoke. All were fascinated by the
singular and weird scene. The moon, low down on the mountain's crest,
still shed a pallid, grayish light that mingled with the fitful red
glare from the glowing coals, the two together casting an unearthly
tinge. But Harley's eyes never left the chief, as he saw his figure
continue to expand and grow with ancient memories of prowess, and the
eyes of Sylvia beside him, as she too listened, expressed many and
strong emotions.

Flying Cloud told of hunting triumphs, of the slaughter of the buffalo,
of fierce encounters with the mountain-lion, of hand-to-hand combat with
the grizzly bear, and then he glided into war. Now his voice rose, full
and prolonged, without any of the tremor or shrillness of age, and his
eccentric dancing grew more violent. His emotions, too, were shown on
his face in all their savagery as he told of the foray and the fight.

At first it was Indian against Indian, and never was any mercy
shown--always woe to the conquered; then it was the whites. An emigrant
train was coming over the mountains--men, women, and children. There was
danger in their path; a Ute war-band was abroad, but the fools knew it
not. They travelled on, and at night the children played and laughed by
the camp-fire, but the shadow of the Utes was always there. Flying Cloud
led the war-band, but held them back until the time should come. He was
waiting for a place that he knew. At last they reached it, a deep canon
with bushes on either side, and the train entered the defile.

Harley suddenly felt a hand upon his arm. It was the fingers of Sylvia
grasping him, but unconscious of the act. He looked up and saw her face
as white as death, and a yard away the eyes of "King" Plummer were
burning like two coals.

Flying Cloud's figure swayed, and his voice trembled with a curious joy
at the old memories. He was approaching the great moment of triumph. He
told how the warriors lay among the bushes, watching the foolish train
come on, how they looked at each other and rejoiced in advance over an
easy victory. Some would have fired too soon, but Flying Cloud would
not let them. His was the cunning mind, as well as the bold heart, and
he omitted nothing. The trap