Silvertip had, no doubt, informed them that
Jim had been on his way to teach the Indians of the white man's God.
Jim sat with drooping head; his face was sad, and evidently he took
the most disheartening view of his capture. When he had eaten the
slice of venison given him he lay down with his back to the fire.
Silvertip, in these surroundings, showed his real character. He had
appeared friendly in the settlement; but now he was the relentless
savage, a son of the wilds, free as an eagle. His dignity as a chief
kept him aloof from his braves. He had taken no notice of the
prisoners since the capture. He remained silent, steadily regarding
the fire with his somber eyes. At length, glancing at the big
Indian, he motioned toward the prisoners and with a single word
stretched himself on the leaves.
Joe noted the same changelessness of expression in the other dark
faces as he had seen in Silvertip's. It struck him forcibly. When
they spoke in their soft, guttural tones, or burst into a low, not
unmusical laughter, or sat gazing stolidly into the fire, their
faces seemed always the same, inscrutable, like the depths of the
forest now hidden in night. One thing Joe felt rather than
saw--these savages were fierce and untamable. He was sorry for Jim,
because, as he believed, it would be as easy to teach the panther
gentleness toward his prey as to instill into one of these wild
creatures a belief in Christ.
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