"How can their talk help you, or the Quahadas?" snorted Hawk contemptuously.
"I do not know." Star spoke slowly. "Someday, they say, the white men will come back to fight the Quahadas and conquer them, as the Big Gray Horse says they have conquered other Indians. Maybe if I listen carefully and ask questions I shall be able to help Quannah and Songbird when the white men come to fight."
"You must have been eating crazy weed," grunted Hawk, "for you do not know how to think right any more. If the white men come, Quannah will send little boys to whip them and frighten them and their horses, as he did that other time. Go back to the strange horses, if you wish, but I shall keep away from them and their foolish talk."
Hawk tossed his head, kicked his heels high in the air, and galloped away, while Star went slowly back to the two cavalry horses. Both of them nickered softly as he drew near, then their noses touched him, and their soft eyes were so friendly that Star forgot how much Hawk's unkindly manner had hurt him a few minutes before.
In his heart Star knew that Hawk was wrong to believe that nothing was worth while except eating and drinking and sleeping, but he and Hawk had been companions ever since they had been old enough to stand on their feet, and it was not easy to give up his old friend.
Chapter XVII
It was September, as the white men count the months, and three years had passed since the Big Gray Horse and the Old White Horse had come to live among the Quahada ponies. The summer had been very hot and no rain had fallen, so there was only a scant supply of dry feed for the ponies and buffaloes and antelopes.
What grass had grown in spite of the drought had been eaten by a swarm of locusts, so that only the bare stalks remained, and these held no nourishment. Where small streams had rippled, there were beds of dry sand. Larger rivers, big enough to have floated a good-sized boat when there was no drought, dwindled down to shallow threads or formed in pools of stagnant water coated with green slime. It was a hard time for the Quahada ponies, and still harder for the Indians.
Songbird watched her father's face anxiously. She knew that he would not allow any one to see whether he were worrying, rejoicing or grieving at any time. It would be unworthy of a warrior to show his feelings, and most unworthy of a chief. She had heard the squaws talking when no men were near.