"Say, where'd you get all this stuff?" asked Frank, admiringly, as he saw Billy's room hung about with guns, knives, revolvers, horns of steers and buffaloes, and Indian trophies, such as bows, arrows, tomahawks and other implements of the chase.
"This is slick!" agreed Andy. "If we had this at Riverview we'd have the finest den going. Why didn't you bring it on?"
"Too much trouble to cart," answered Billy, with a laugh. "I picked up some of this stuff myself, and some my uncle had when he was a young fellow, when there were Indians out here and a few buffalo. Then my friends gave me things once in a while."
"It's swell, all right," said Frank admiringly, as he took down an Indian bow.
"I'd like to have some of these," remarked Andy, as he reached for a sheaf of arrows.
"Look out!" suddenly cried Billy.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked the Racer lad.
"Some of those points may be poisoned," explained Billy. "I cleaned them, as I got them, for fear of that, but I can't be sure that I got all the venom out at that. Better not scratch yourself with 'em. I ought to fasten them higher up."
"How are they poisoned?" asked Andy wonderingly, as he backed away, and looked up at the weapons.
"Of course I'm not sure that particular bunch is poisoned," went on the ranch boy; "but it's best to take no chances. Archie gave me those. He says the Indians used to get a big rattlesnake, and irritate him so he'd strike at anything. Then they'd fasten him in front of a cow liver and he'd bury his fangs in it until the liver reeked with poison. Then they'd rub their arrow tips in it, and there you are—or, rather, there you aren't, if you happen to be scratched by one.