had often seen Indians in the towns through which the broncho boys
had passed, and occasionally they had come into the camps they had
established on the drive of the herd up from Texas.

But this was the first time Dick had ever come in contact with an Indian
when he was alone. For a moment his heart stopped beating, for he was
afraid.

"How?" grunted the Indian.

It was all Dick could do to reply with a feeble, quavering "How?"

Many times around the camp fire, with the boys all about, when Bud was
telling one of his tales of Indians, Dick had thought what he would do
if he ever came in contact with a real, live, sure-enough redskin, and
always he had thought how brave he would be. But now that he had
actually met one, he felt his nerve ooze away.

However, the Indian was not aware of it, for Dick had a way of keeping
his feelings to himself, and he seldom showed whether he was surprised
or angry, although he never hesitated to let his friends know his
pleasure at their kindness, or gratitude for what they did for him.

He was looking at the Indian steadily, taking stock of him, and this is
what he saw: A broad, dirty face, in which burned two small, narrow
eyes. The cheek bones were prominent, and on each one was a spot of red
paint. The long, black, coarse hair was braided with pieces of otter
fur, and covered with an old cavalry cap, in which was stuck a crow's
wing feather, and around his neck hung a small, round pocket mirror
attached to a red string, by way of ornament.

The Indian wore a dirty cotton shirt and a pair of brown overalls, and
his feet were covered with green moccasins, decorated with small tubes
of tin, which jingled every time he took a step.

A belt and holster hung at his hip, and the handle of a Colt forty-four
was within easy reach.

"White papoose where go?" asked the Indian, showing a row of sharpened
teeth.

"Hunt coyote," replied Dick, in a voice that trembled.

"Heap fool. No catch coyote," said the Indian, reaching over and lifting
Dick's Remington from the saddle.

He sighted it, turned it around in his hand, and then coolly slung it
over his shoulder.

"Here, give that to me," said Dick sturdily. With this act of theft all
his courage came back to him. No dirty Indian should have the rifle
Stella had given him.

But the Indian only grinned.

"Me heap brave," said the Indian. "Me Pokopokowo."

He looked at Dick as if he expected the boy to be deeply impressed.

"I