"A convenient way of drinking the whiskey," murmured Harry. "If the barrel wasn't his, he can claim the Indians did it, you know."
"Well, we can tell him about the first hole, all right," scolded the indignant Terry. "And so can other people."
"Now for the head," invited Harry.
The hat had been returned to Ike, who eyed the contents doubtfully, shook them over, and stowed them in his pocket with a scowl.
"Six bits air a mighty measley sum to pay for the privilege an' eddication o' seein' the actual head o' the biggest, fiercest Injun who ever terrerized the West till he tuk arter the wrong pusson, but I'll show him to you, jest the same."
So saying, Ike reached into the barrel, and extracting his prize, held it up. Harry nudged Terry; staring, Terry saw, recognized, gasped.
"Thunder Horse! Aw——"
"Do you know, I kind of expected that," alleged Harry. "I kind of felt it was coming."
The face of the severed head was assuredly the hideous face of Thunder Horse, the drunken Kiowa; and the hair was the Kiowa's hair.
"Thunder Horse died because of his leg, and Ike found him and cut off his head!" scoffed Terry. "I'm going straight to the wagon and show the whole thing up. We'll make Ike look sick—that old blow and his barrel and his 'big-chief' head!"