"The white men are fighting the Indians again," the Kiowa pony said.
"The Indians cannot hide from them always," spoke the Big Gray Horse, who looked alertly at the Kiowa pony.
"I told you that the white men would keep coming until all the Indians have been conquered"—the Old White Horse turned to Star. "It makes no difference how bravely the Indians fight, nor whether they are right or wrong, the end is the same. They are conquered and must obey the white men. But maybe that is best for all."
"It would be best for all if each let the other alone!" answered Star. "If men had as much sense as horses have, there would be less trouble for all of us. We do not fight, though some of us belong to the Quahadas, others to the Kiowas, and you," he turned to the cavalry horses, "belong to a general and to a soldier who obeys the general. If there were ponies here from the Arapahoes and the Cheyennes, or any other tribes, we would all graze together and not bite nor kick one another. Why, then, do men fight one another?"
"Men are different," the Big Gray Horse spoke.
"It is a pity they do not know how silly we think they are!" snorted Hawk, joining the group.
"They are our masters," the Old White Horse rebuked him quickly. "Young horses kick and buck and bite, or run away when they first are brought to a troop. But they learn soon what it means to be hurt by heavy bits in their mouths, or sharp spurs digging into their sides. If a horse throws a man, another man gets on the horse's back at once, and then another and another, until the horse is too weary to fight. I have heard young horses talk about men, but it does no good. They all talk the same, then they understand, and so they stop fighting against the bit, the spur, the saddle, and the rider, and they obey. After that they, too, listen when young horses talk as they themselves once did. For when all is said and done, men are our masters! We will obey them whether they are white men or Indians, because we belong to them and must serve them. I, too, bit and fought and bucked men from my back, long ago."
As they talked, Quannah and his head chiefs, accompanied by the Kiowa warrior, approached the ponies. When the Quahadas stopped, the Kiowa slipped his bridle of rawhide over the nose of his pony, which submitted quietly. Its owner's hand rested lightly on the pony's neck and the animal's eyes watched its master's face. He was speaking to the Quahadas now.
"This is the message. The Big Father at Washington has sent his soldiers. They come in numbers like the leaves on the trees, or the blades of grass on the prairie. Our runners have brought word that the soldiers are coming to surround and kill all of the Indians. Big chiefs lead the white men from four sides. A friendly Indian sent us word that a big chief named Miles leads them all, and that Mackenzie, who fought us three winters ago, is with the others. He has not forgotten the rout of the White Horses yet."
The Old White Horse cocked his ears, and the Big Gray Horse lifted his head high. Star saw them look at each other, and he remembered they had often talked of these big white chiefs.