Stellan and Laura were playing in the sand and in the lilac hedge in front of the house. The simple games of robbers of former days were now a thing of the past. They wore a bright array of feathers, and carried bows and tomahawks. They had read Cooper and Marryat and knew how to choose impressive names and make subtle stratagems. The hedge was also dense and deep, with fine ambushes and splendid hiding places for stealthy Indian warfare. Stellan was called “Black Panther” and Laura “Flying Arrow.” Don’t imagine that she was allowed to impersonate some pale squaw with a soft flower name. No, she was a young warrior on her first warpath. “Black Panther’s” voice sounded sharp and commanding when he was teaching his young companions the use of the bow. “Flying Arrow” had displayed some squeamishness and had giggled in an unwarriorlike manner, which was not in keeping with the seriousness of the moment, and which was duly corrected.
Peter was looking on. Big and clumsy in his outgrown and patched sailor’s suit, he leant against a rusty rainpipe grinning provocatively. “Black Panther” ran up to him.
“Won’t you come and play with us and be a Pale-Face?”
“No,” came Peter’s sulky reply in a husky voice, about to break—
“Black Panther” looked round about him wondering how to get some new excitement into the game, as it was beginning to become dull. His glance fell with a sudden expression of premature and hopeless loathing on his father on the seat. But just as suddenly he brightened up—caught hold of “Flying Arrow” by the arm and pointed at the old man:
“He is a Comanche. He is ‘Heavy Ox.’ We’ll creep up to him from two sides.”
“Black Panther” and “Flying Arrow” crept across the plot of sand with sly, watchful eyes. Then “Black Panther” sprang up like a steel spring released and swung his lasso. “Heavy Ox” was caught. They tied him to the seat as to a torture post. “Heavy Ox” did not seem to notice anything. From behind, “Black Panther” even managed to put on his head a chieftain’s feather crown consisting of some crow’s feathers pushed into the ribbon of an old, brimless, tattered straw hat. But “Heavy Ox” sat there with his new and wonderful ornament as solemnly and as apathetically unconcerned as ever.
