But now there arose a stubby, thickset Indian with a stern, rugged countenance, who had sat smoking in stony silence. His speech was quite short, and it was delivered in a blunt, almost awkward manner. As an orator, he could not compare with the other; for he had neither the style nor the smooth flow of words. Yet his crude utterances bore heavily on his hearers. Nods of approval ran around the red circle; muttered expressions of agreement could be heard on every hand. “How do you figure it out, Ben?” puzzled Tom. “It’s got me in a fog, Tom. Why, that tall chief talked rings around him!” “Sure did. He had a real gift of gab.” A big frontiersman, evidently a veteran woodcrafter, who stood nearby, volunteered an explanation. He pointed out that the superb orator of the high-sounding words had in his hair only a single eagle feather, while the other, the thickest savage, had eagle feathers all around his head and trailing down his back to touch the very ground at his heels. “You mean,” inquired Ben incredulously, “that the chief who can sport the longest string of pretty feathers has the most say-so?” “Jest that,” smiled the affable stranger. “But why?” questioned the doubting lad. “Listen, younker! them purty feathers ain’t worn fer decoration mainly. Each one means a scalp that the chief has took in battle.” “Oh, I think I see,” put in Tom thoughtfully. “A few words from this chief, who has taken many scalps, carries more weight than all the flowery oratory of a man who has no such fighting record to back up his talk.” “You hit the bull’s-eye, boy. That’s jest it.” The Indian council dragged along, and soon the listening twins began to tire of the seemingly endless round of speeches, not a word of which could they understand. “They’re getting nowhere fast,” complained Ben. “Oh, the big chiefs ’ll chew this thing over fer hours,” remarked the friendly frontiersman. “That’s Injun naitcher. Ther ain’t bigger wind-bags in the world than some o’ these here Injun chiefs. They run off at the mouth by the hour.” “Well, Ben, if that’s the case,” declared Tom, “let’s drop back to the village for a bite to eat, and then return later.” Accordingly, the boys left the savage chieftains to their long-winded harangues, and went down river to the fort. About mid-afternoon, they heard that the youths had finally been brought before the wise men and informed that they would be permitted to fight as proposed, the winner to take the maiden as his intended wife. “The duel is set for an hour before sundown,” a soldier told Ben and Tom. As the fatal hour approached, the two brothers headed inland toward the designated scene of encounter. They found a turbulent concourse of several hundred Indians and whites banked around the place, a sandy flat dotted with a few clumps of hazel brush, about a mile beyond the swamps that rimmed the lake. There wasn’t long to wait. “Here they come!” sang out Tom excitedly, some five minutes after their own arrival.