This
elicited no further response than an intent look.
Night came. Allie lay awake a good while, and then she fell asleep.
Next morning she was awakened by an uproar. Whistling and trampling
mustangs, whoops of braves, the babel of many voices, barking of
dogs, movement, bustle, sound--all attested to the return of the
warriors. Allie's heart sank for a moment; this would be the time of
trial for her. But the clamor subsided without any disturbance near
her tent. By and by the old squaw returned to attend to her needs.
This time on the way out she dropped a blanket curtain between the
tent and the lodge.
Soon Indians entered the lodge, quite a number, with squaws among
them, judging by their voices. A harangue ensued, lasting an hour or
more; it interested Allie, especially because at times she heard and
recognized the quick, passionate utterance of the young squaw.
Soon Allie's old attendant shuffled in, and unbound her, then,
lifting the curtain she motioned to Allie to come out. Allie went
into the lodge. An early sun lighted the place brightly. It was full
of Indians. In the center stood a striking figure, probably a chief,
tall and lean, with scars on his naked breast. His face was bronze,
with deep lines, somber and bitter, and cruel thin lips, and eyes
that glittered like black fire.
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