“Nashtio,” he said, “the Moshome have taken five scalps.”

“Where?” Tyope snorted.

“There;” he pointed southward.

“And we?”

“Three.”

“Have the people gone back?”

“A little.”

“It is well.  Tell the men to come still farther this way, but very slowly.”

He ordered five of his own men to go back with the runner to replace the five whom the Tehuas had killed.  With the rest he pushed forward.  He kept beside the Hishtanyi Chayan, and both walked almost at the head of their little troupe.  Only a few scouts preceded them, so completely safe did Tyope feel about the west and northwest.

The action in the rear seemed to lag.  A wild uproar broke out in the southwest but no messenger came with evil tidings.  The Queres maintained themselves.  All was well.

The engagement had lasted two hours already, and it might continue in this way for hours more without coming to a crisis in the mean time.  Tyope would creep up to the women and children of the Tehuas.  In case the rear-guard should be ultimately destroyed by the enemy it mattered little, for by capturing the non-combatants the Queres still remained masters of the situation.  Tyope was explaining all this to the Hishtanyi Chayan; and the two, in consequence of their conversation, had remained behind the foremost skirmish-line.  The shaman was listening, and from time to time grunting assent to Tyope’s explanations.

Suddenly the shrubbery in front rattled, and moved violently, as though deer were endeavouring to tear through it at full speed.  At the same time there arose in that very west which had been so still, and close upon the two men, a fearful war-whoop uttered by many voices.  Like wildfire this threatening howl spread to the west; it seemed to run along an arc of a circle from the northwest to the south.  The warriors in front came running back in dismay.  Many of them were already wounded.  One reached the spot where the commander and the shaman were standing spell-bound.  There he fell to the ground headlong, blood flowing from his mouth.  His body had been shot through and through.

However great his surprise at that completely unexpected attack, and however disastrous it must be to all his plans, Tyope not only did not lose his head, but rather seemed to grow cool and self-possessed, and an expression of sinister quiet settled on his features.  Yet he was internally far from being at ease or hopeful.  He blew his whistle.  Without regard to his office the old shaman crouched behind a shrub, where, placing his shield before him, he listened and spied.  The medicine-man had imitated Tyope’s example; the magician was now turned into a warrior!