our way down to the level those
Indians came from."

The Lipans made short work of loading their ponies, and the moment they
were out of sight the miners began their climb out of that canyon.
There was no good reason why they should follow the Lipans.

CHAPTER VIII

A refusal to go out with the hunters was a strange thing to come from
Red Wolf. No other young brave in that band of Apaches had a better
reputation for killing deer and buffaloes. It was a common saying
among the older squaws that when he came to have a lodge of his own
"there would always be plenty of meat in it."

He was not, therefore, a "lazy Indian," and it was something he had on
his mind that kept him in the camp that day. It had also made him
beckon to Ni-ha-be, and look very hard after Rita when she hurried away
toward the bushes with her three magazines of "talking leaves." Red
Wolf was curious.

He hardly liked to say as much to a squaw, even such a young squaw as
Ni-ha-be, and his own sister, but he had some questions to ask her,
nevertheless.

He might have asked some of them of his father, but the great war-chief
of that band of Apaches was now busily watching Dolores and her
saucepan, and everybody knew better than to speak to him just before
supper.

Ni-ha-be saw at a glance what was the matter with her haughty brother,
and she was glad enough to tell him all there was to know of how and
where the talking leaves had been found.

"Did they speak to you?"

"No. But I saw pictures."

"Pictures of what?"

"Mountains; big lodges; trees; braves; pale-face squaws; pappooses;
white men's bears; and pictures that lied--not like anything."

"Ugh! Bad medicine. Talk too much. So blue-coat soldier throw them
away."

"They talk to Rita."

"What say to her?"

"I don't know. She'll tell me. She'll tell you if you ask her."

"Ugh! No. Red Wolf is a warrior. Not want any squaw talk about
pictures. You ask Rita some things."

"What things?"

"Make the talking leaves tell where all blue-coat soldiers go. All
that camped here. Know then whether we follow 'em."

"Maybe they won't tell."

"Burn some. The rest talk then. White man's leaves not want to tell
about white man. Rita must make them talk. Old braves in camp say
they know. Many times the talking leaves tell the pale-faces all about
Indians. Tell where go. Tell what do. Tell how to find and kill.
Bad medicine."

The "old braves" of many an Indian