The children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long at the great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence.
The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of inflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise when this hated Long Knife was to die.
Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man of his own color.

Jim Girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyes lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from between them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum.
"You'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarse voice.

He had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for the carrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him.

"D'ye hear, scalp-hunter?
Feed for buzzards!" He deliberately spat in the hunter's face.

"D'ye hear ?" he repeated.
There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye.
But the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that flaming glance.