The chief, Yellow Panther, arose.  He was a tall and ferocious savage, with a cunning countenance.

“The Shawnees change their minds quickly,” he said, in tones of subtle and insulting insinuation.  “There is one here who came from their village but three days since, and then they looked not so kindly upon the peace belts.  It is well to bring him to this council of the Miamis.”

He glanced at Gray Beaver and the ancient chief nodded.  Then Yellow Panther stepped from the Council House.

The heart of Big Fox stirred within him ever so slightly.  What did Yellow Panther mean by “one who had come but three days since”?  A new factor was entering the terrible game.  But he showed no emotion, nor did his comrades, the other two belt bearers, Brown Bear and The Bat.  Neither of the latter had spoken since he entered the Council House.

The murmurs ceased, and all sank back on their skin mats.  Silence resumed absolute sway in the long room.  The little eddies of smoke still curled against the roof, and the air was surcharged with suspense.

The buffalo robe over the entrance was lifted, and Yellow Panther returned.  Behind him came a second figure.

The eyes of Big Fox turned slowly from the council fire, and looked straight into those of Braxton Wyatt.

CHAPTER XIII

BRAXTON WYATT’S ORDEAL

The blood of Big Fox leaped for a moment in his veins, but it did not show under the paint of his face.  His figure never quivered.  He still knew all the danger, and he knew, moreover, how it had increased since the entrance of Braxton Wyatt, but he said, in slow, cold tones, full of deadly meaning: 

“It is the white youth who left his own people to come to our village and join our people.  We have received him, but the eyes of the warriors are still upon him.”

The insinuation was evident.  The renegade could not be trusted.  Already, with the first words spoken, Big Fox was impeaching his character.

Braxton Wyatt stood with his back to the buffalo robe, which had fallen again over the entrance, and looked around at the circle of chiefs who had resumed their seats on the skin mats.  Then his eyes met the stern, accusing gaze of Big Fox, the Shawnee belt bearer, and were held there as if fascinated.  But Braxton Wyatt was not without courage.  He wrenched his eyes away, turned them upon the ancient chief, Gray Beaver, and said: 

“I have been long in the Shawnee lodges, great chief of the Miamis, but I do not know these belt bearers.”

There was a murmur, and a stir on the skin mats.

Big Fox scorned to look again at Braxton Wyatt.  He gazed steadily at the council fire, and said in tones of indifference: 

“The white youth who left his own people has been in the lodges, where the old men and women stay; we have been on the war trail with the warriors.  The day we returned to the village we were chosen to bring the peace belts to our good friends, the Miamis.”