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"A wicked Paleface called Humpty Dumpty has taken the prairies which once belonged to the Leatherskins and is now camped upon them and hunting our buffaloes. What shall be his fate? Let each warrior speak in turn." "Tell him he has jolly well got to clear out," said Laddie. "That's not Indian talk," cried Dimples, with all his soul in the game. "Kill him, great Chief him and his squaw, too."

There was dead silence until it had gone round and returned to its owner. "Warriors of the Leatherskins, why have we come here?" asked Daddy, fingering his rifle. "Humpty Dumpty," said little John, and the children all began to laugh, but the portentous gravity of Daddy brought them back to the warrior mood. "The Prairie Wolf has spoken truly," said Daddy.

There was the sound of a turning key and the whole tribe of the Leatherskins was locked into the hut. A moment later a dreadful face appeared at the window, a face daubed with mud and overhung with grass, which drooped down from under a soft cap. The weird creature danced in triumph, and then stooped to set a light to some paper and shavings near the window. "Heavens!" cried the Chief.

Then he returned to the children. "Collect the tribe," said he. "There is a Council in a quarter of an hour in the big room. Put on your Indian dresses and arm yourselves. The great Chief will be there!" Sure enough when he entered the big room a quarter of an hour later the tribe of the Leatherskins had assembled.