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A moment later Yellow Elk nodded to the other Indians and all leaped forward and bound Pawnee Brown fast to the fire-stake. This done the redskins heaped the brush around the scout's feet. "Now the dirty white dog can die!" hissed Yellow Elk, as he advanced with a torch. "He can pray, but the white man's Great Father cannot save him! He must burn until his bones are as charcoal!"
"Sooner or later they'll make a go of that," muttered Anderson. Neale heard the scout's horse, that had been left there in the inclosure. "Anderson, suppose I jump your horse. It's dark as pitch. I could run through reach the troops. I'll take a chance." "I had that idee myself," replied Anderson. "But it seems to me if them troopers wasn't havin' hell they'd been here long ago.
"Something troubles you," said his young friend Andre Vanovitch, who had for some time sat smoking quietly at his side, gazing into the fire, and thinking, no doubt, of the girl with the auburn hair, far away in the land of the Muscove. "Yes, I'm troubled about friends," was the scout's laconic answer.
A barefoot boy, dressed in much the same parody of a Boy Scout's uniform, but with corduroy shorts instead of a kilt, stood before him at rigid attention. Some command was issued, the child saluted, and trotted back past the travellers with never a look at them. Discipline was strong among the Gorbals Die-Hards; no Chief of Staff ever conversed with his General under a stricter etiquette.
Arriving at Dead Line, it was met there by Buffalo Bill, Surgeon Powell, and Wallace Weston, and the eight miners joined them and went up to the scout's basin camp. Then, with the two leaders taken from Harding's coach, they had, with Wolf's horses and the pack-animals, enough to mount the party.
At last he reached the much-coveted point the crown of the last ascent; and when he smelled fire and the savory odor of the jerked buffalo meat, it well-nigh caused him to waver! But he must not fail to follow the custom of untold ages, and give the game scout's wolf call before entering camp.
"Yes, something like 'No Man's Land'. But did any one ever hear of 'No Scout's Land? That's the beauty of belonging to a privileged organization." "Queer thing how every one warns us to keep away from there," said Julia. "Every one but Bentley. Wonder what he would say if we asked him for a pass!" "That's a brilliant idea, Julie," declared Margaret. "The very thing to do is to ask Ben."
'Uncle' Steve. And this is Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys. Don't we, Julyman?" The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomed features as he moved along beside his boss. "Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em plenty, much." "Why ain't you asleep?" demanded the boy abruptly addressing the scout and in quite a changed tone. His smile, too, had gone.
Another moment and Petroff had discovered the Pasha, who lay near him with a look of intense longing in his eyes as he saw the flask and heard the gurgling water. A fierce frown crossed the scout's brow for a moment, but it was instantly chased away by a look of pity. He dragged himself slowly towards the dying Turk, and held the flask to his lips.
There was no chance for their prey to lurk in wait. "We should smell it." Sssuri picked that worry out of the scout's mind and had a ready answer for it. Sure they should smell the lair; nothing could cloak the horrible odor of a snake-devil's home. Dalgard sniffed vigorously as he padded along. Though odd smells clung to the strange buildings none of them were actively obnoxious yet. "River "
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