“I suppose they think it’s a great joke,” panted George. “It’d served ’em right if we’d wiped out a few of ’em. And we’d have done it, too, in a minute more.”
The Pawnees evidently did think it a great joke. They came on laughing and prancing. The leader, their sergeant, shook hands with Terry, and with the angry George.
“What do you mean by chasing us, anyhow?” George demanded.
The sergeant, who wore breeches-leggins with a commissioned officer’s yellow stripe down their seam, grinned broadly.
“Heap run,” he chuckled. “No good. Pawnees ketch ’um, samee Sioux. Make young warriors. Good boys.”
“Humph!” Then Terry found himself smiling, too. There was no use in being sour over such luck. “Where you going?”
“Where you go?” answered the sergeant.
“Cheyenne.”
“All right. We go Cheyenne. Come.”
George’s horse was unhurt; they mounted.