"Navajos, ain't they?" asked Bob, who, of course, depended on his
comrade for all such information, since one Indian was as much like
another as two peas to him.
"Sure thing," replied the other, carelessly. "Tell 'em as far as I can
glimpse the beggars. And I just reckon now that's old Wolf Killer
himself, ridin' at the head of the line, with his gay blanket wrapped
around him. Wonder what he'd say if he knew Frank Haywood was here, so
far away from the home ranch?" and Frank chuckled as though amused.
"Do you know the old chief, then?" asked Bob.
"Say, do I?" replied Frank, with a laugh. "Remember me telling you how
the boys on our place caught a Navajo trying to run away with one of
our saddle herds about three years ago, when I was hardly more'n a kid?
Well, I chased him with the rest of the outfit, and saw old Hank throw
his rope over his shoulders. He snaked the fellow over the ground and
through the short buffalo grass like a coyote, 'till he was punished
enough; and then my dad made 'em let him go. But you just ought to
have seen the way he folded his arms, stared at each of us, and, never
saying a single word, walked away. I've often wondered if he didn't
mean to come back some day, and try to get his revenge."
"And that was the chief himself?" asked Bob.
"Just who it was," Frank went on. "He'd left the reservation, and got
too much fire-water aboard, they said; so he thought the good old days
had come back, when a Navajo always tried to get away with any horses
he ran across.
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