On boughs so near that he could touch them rested a platform of poles about eight feet long and four feet wide. The poles were tied tightly together with rawhide thongs, and over them were spread leaves, grass, and small boughs. Upon these couches rested two long figures wrapped tightly in buffalo hide. They were the bodies of the dead. Farther on were other platforms and other bodies. Phil knew what the dark objects were. He had read and heard too much about Indian life to be mistaken, and, despite his power of will over self, he shuddered again and again. He surmised that these might be temporary burial platforms, as they were usually put in isolated places away from the village, but here they were, and now it occurred to him that their presence would be to his advantage. Superstition is strong among the Comanches, and they would not walk under the trees that supported the burial platforms on their boughs. He advanced from bough to bough until he came directly against the skin walls of the great medicine lodge. There he lay along a strong and horizontal bough with his body pressed close to the wall, and a human eye ten feet away would not have seen him. Just above Phil’s head was a place where two of the buffalo hides had not been sewn closely together, and the light from within shone out. He raised his head, widened the place with his knife, and looked down into the medicine lodge. The boy beheld an extraordinary scene. From the roof of the lodge hung a joss or image, with the profile of a man, rudely carved from a split log. One side of the face was painted white, and the other black. Beneath it was a circular space about twenty feet in diameter, roped off and surrounded by a great crowd of people. Old squaws held aloft torches of pine or other wood that cast a ruddy light over eager and intense faces. A great medicine dance was about to be held; and now the shaman, or chief medicine man, an old, dark Indian named Okapa, who for the present took precedence over both Black Panther and his visitor, who was the great chief Santana, was preparing to begin. Phil could see Okapa clearly as he stood alone in the center of the cleared circular space, carrying in his hands a short, carved stick, like a baton. It is hard to judge an Indian’s age, but Phil Bedford believed that this man must be at least seventy. Nevertheless, despite his deeply lined and seamed face, he was erect and strong. But it was, a cruel face, with thin, compressed lips, a large hooked nose, and jet black eyes that smoldered with dark fire. It was a face to inspire fear, and it was all the more ominous when the light of many torches fell upon it, tinting it a deeper and darker red. Okapa raised his hand. Save for the tense breathing of the multitude there was silence in the lodge. Phil, forgetful of all danger, pressed more closely against the buffalo skin to see. CHAPTER VI