“One,” now urged Tall Bull. “Boy give one, or mebbe boy die an’ lose all.”
Davy shook his head.
“No.”
Now another Indian rode forward. With the corner of his eye Davy saw that he was the Sioux. The Sioux spoke to the two Cheyennes; they grunted answer, and the bow of the old warrior slowly relaxed, as if it hated to.
The Sioux extended his hand to Davy. He was a young buck, and good looking, with a sober cast of features.
“How, cola? (How do you do, friend?)” he said; and Davy shook hands with him. “All right. Brave boy. You go. Take cattle. Goodby.”
“Goodby,” said Davy. He promptly turned the lame steer aside and the others followed. He did not delay a moment. Would the Indians try to stop him again? No; they let him work. Driving the steers he started on the back trail, past the three Indians in the rear. Every moment he expected to feel an arrow plump into him between his shoulders; but he did not even look around. He attended to business. When at last he did look around, the six Indians were riding along at a jog. Davy quickened his pace, and when he arrived with his little bunch at the herd he was glad indeed.
He had proved his mettle. He felt that nobody would have done better.