“What the dickens is he up to now?” exclaimed Frank, as he sprang to the window and looked out.
The sight that met his eyes was both amusing and surprising. To the tail of a small, long-eared burro, attached by means of a cord, hung an old tin can. And the burro was hee-hawing and kicking furiously in a mad endeavor to free himself from the thing which clattered and thumped about his heels.
On the ground, in a perfect paroxysm of delight, rolled Dick, from whose lips came the shrieks of elfish laughter. It was two days since Frank had first met this, until then, unknown half-brother.
Wrapped in a dirty red blanket, sitting with his back against the wall of the cabin, was Old Joe Crowfoot, who calmly smoked his long-stemmed pipe, and regarded the youngster and the burro with the gravity of a stone image.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” shouted the boy. “Look at Billy! Kick it again, Billy! Oh, ha! ha! ha! Oh, ha! ha! ha!”
Billy kicked and rolled his eyes round at the persistent thing that came banging back against his heels. There was a comical look of mingled terror and anger in the eyes of the little burro. He plunged and leaped about in various attempts to get away from the rattling pail, which his heels had battered out of all semblance to its original shape.
“Ugh!” grunted the old Indian, and he gravely continued smoking, without moving hand or foot.
Then came a sudden, childish cry of distress, and round the cabin Felicia came running. She rushed straight toward the little burro.
“Oh, Billy! Billy!” she cried. “Who hurt my Billy? Stop, Billy! I’ll take it off!”
Heedless of danger, fearless of the flying hoofs and plunging beast, she ran right up to the burro. A moment later she was knocked flat as the little animal lunged round in its mad struggles to get away from the banging pail.