He moved, stirred his broad bulk, opened his wool coat and flung it off. One hand went out to the red wampum belt and drew it in; the other went to his belt and produced a long knife. With a swift motion he drove the knife through the centre of the wampum belt, which he twisted about the haft; he flung belt and knife at the feet of Standing Bull. “There is my answer to the Star Woman,” he said, and with an angry laugh rose to his feet. “So her lodge is pitched at the lake of many stars? Good. I shall come and take her as my squaw. The Stone Men shall dance with your scalps and put you into the kettle, taking your women as slaves. That is my response. As for this rascal,” and he whirled on Crawford with a baleful glare, “stand up and fight, ye vagabond rogue! Settle our affairs, as ye said, and I’ll crop your ears for ye.” Crawford rose, his face very bleak and hard. “Fight? Who said fight?” he demanded, giving Maclish a cool stare. “I’ve no intention of fighting with you. I said we’d settle our business--ay! But we’ll not fight.” The Scot stared at him, amazed, jaw fallen in sheer astonishment. “Eh, man? But----” Swift as light, his careless attitude giving no warning of his intention, Crawford swung on his heel and drove his fist into the pit of the big man’s stomach. It was a terrific blow, with body weight behind it. Caught all astare and unsuspecting, Maclish grunted as the breath was smashed out of him. An expression of mute agony swept into his face, and he slowly toppled forward, gasping and senseless. “_Was-te!_” came the guttural approval of the two chiefs. Crawford, standing above the unconscious Maclish, looked at them for a moment. “The star fights for me. Will you take us with you or not?” “Our brother Wandering Star shall go with us, and his friend.” “This is a red bull who never gives up,” and Crawford stirred the senseless Maclish with his toe. “He will lead the Stone Men after us.” “Let my brother drink his blood,” said Standing Bull. “The time for that has not come. Later on I shall kill him, but first I shall put my mark upon him, so that all men may know that he belongs to me. If he does follow us, the Dacotah will capture him, then I shall take him and kill him.” Crawford did not scrutinize the brown faces as he said this, or he might have noted that the chiefs showed no great delight in his prediction. He took out his knife and stooped over Maclish. With deliberation, he slit the skin on that sweating, agonized forehead; when he had finished, the Scot was branded with a five-pointed star. It bled copiously. “He has lived well, the bleeding will give him strength,” said Frontin cynically. “You mistake, cap’n, not to put the knife into his heart. He promised to crop your ears.” “Let him live with this brand on him,” said Crawford. “I shall find him again.”