One cry he uttered, weird, fierce, unearthly, but it seemed to pierce like a knife through the stillness that had fallen.

Awed, sobered, paralyzed, the Indians stood motionless.

Then from their ranks ran Chief Trotting Wolf, picked up the rifle of the Indian who still lay insensible on the ground, and took his place beside the boy.
A few words he spoke in a voice that rang out fiercely imperious.

Still the Indians stood motionless.

Again the Chief spoke in short, sharp words of command, and, as they still hesitated, took one swift stride toward the man that stood nearest, swinging his rifle over his head.
Forward sprang the doctor to his side, his poplar club likewise swung up to strike.