These had been men, all six of them. Two Sauteurs, three Crees, and the Assiniboine chief of Maclish’s party; they were dead, sitting in frozen silence as though watching the council fire, cunningly placed soon after death so that their rigid bodies assumed the sitting posture naturally. They had not been scalped. Only the horrible fixedness of eye and sinew betrayed their condition. A cry of fury broke from Maclish at sight of the chieftain. “I’ll have your scalps for this, ye rogues!” “My brothers are welcome,” said the bison-chief in French. “We do not understand the strange talk that is like the crackling of dried leaves.” “You’ll understand it soon enough,” retorted Maclish, in groping and barbarous French, and added an oath. “You’ve murdered the chief!” Crawford, inwardly laughing at all this, struck in smoothly. The fact that these chiefs spoke French, which was obviously difficult for Maclish, was a godsend. “This man is an Englishman,” and he gestured toward Maclish, who was purple with fury. “He is my enemy, and leads the Stone Men. He seeks the Star Woman, and so do I. Presently he and I will settle our quarrel. We await your message.” “That is good,” said the Dacotah. “Standing Bull and Yellow Sky have brought belts from the Star Woman. We are of the nation of The Men, the Issanti clan of the Dacotah. The Star Woman ordered us to meet in this fashion the white man who came to seek her, and to give him the belts. We have waited long. Now we do not understand who is to receive these belts. It was said that the white man was an Englishman, having red hair.” At these words Crawford started slightly. It was true that his hair was a reddish brown. Maclish did not comprehend all that was said, between his poor command of French and his overpowering rage. Crawford, however, made a swift and shrewd guess that the message from the Star Woman was not a nice one; remembering the token she had sent Moses Deakin, he resolved to gamble heavily on this presumed fact. Now, as Standing Bull produced a calumet and a bag of willow-bark, Maclish spat hot words at him. “I will not smoke with you! Am I to smoke with you while the eyes of that dead chief reproach me?” “The calumet has not been offered you,” was the calm response. “We do not smoke with Englishmen, who are enemies of our brothers the French. Which of you is to receive the belts?” Crawford intervened with precision. “This man Red Bull seeks to marry the Star Woman and to carry her off among the Stone Men. It is to him that your belts are sent. I am an Irishman. With me is my friend, who is a Frenchman. I will call him.” This drew an approving grunt of surprise and pleasure. “_Was-te! Was-te!_” The burly Scot, with the game thus taken out of his hands, scowled. Crawford touched his arm.