“Have no fear,” I answered.
Stroud’s post-office was farther west, near the Montana border; we reached it the third or fourth day out.
We made camp, and after supper, I went in and told Mr. Stroud our errand.
“Yes,” he said, “your cattle are three miles from here, on a ranch owned by Frank Powers; he hired two cowboys to steal them for him.”
The next morning my men and I mounted, and leaving our wagon at Stroud’s, started for Powers’ ranch. I was unarmed; the others of my party had their rifles.
We stopped at the cabin of a man named Crockin, to inquire our way. A white man came in; after he had gone out again, I asked Crockin, “Who is that man?”
“He is Frank Powers,” said Crockin.
I turned to my men and said in their own language, “That is the man who stole our cattle.”
Little Wolf drew his cleaning rod. “I am going to give that bad white man a beating,” he cried angrily.
“You will not,” I answered. “We will go into Powers’ pasture and round up his cattle; and I will cut out all that I think are ours. If that bad white man comes out and says evil words against me, do nothing. If he shoots at me, kill him quick; but do not you shoot first!“