The Indian laughed and, shaking his head, again held up his three fingers.
“Three hundred miles, you mean?” said Reuben.
The Indian nodded his head several times to indicate that the young white had spoken correctly. Plainly the words “hundred” and “miles” were not in his vocabulary.
Patting himself upon the chest, the Indian said: “Me Breaker of Arrows. Come to Pawnee country. Try to get Pawnee ponies.”
“You mean you came out here to steal their horses?” inquired Reuben.
“No steal; take horses.”
“How many did you get? It doesn’t look as if you had had very great success. These ponies you are riding look as if they had been turned loose by the Pawnees. They aren’t worth feeding.”
“Pawnee heap coward!” said the Indian grimly. “Pawnee shut up horses in lodges at night.”
“Did they find you?” inquired Reuben.
“No find. Breaker of Arrows, Cheyenne. Dark Night, no find,” added the warrior, pointing to the boy as he spoke.