"Is he a tame Indian?" the little boy next wanted to know.
"Oh, he's 'tame' all right. Hi there, Running Horse!" called Uncle Frank to the copper-faced man in the blanket, "sell many baskets to-day?"
"Um few. No good business," answered the Indian in a sort of grunt.
"Oh, do you know him?" asked Ted in surprise.
"Oh, yes. Running Horse often comes to the ranch when he's hungry. There's a reservation of the Indians not far from our place. They won't hurt you, Jan; don't be afraid," said Uncle Frank, as he saw that the little girl kept close to Teddy.
"Was he wild once?" she asked timidly.
"Why, yes; I guess you might have called him a wild Indian once," her uncle admitted. "He's pretty old and I shouldn't wonder but what he had been on the warpath against the white settlers."
"Oh!" exclaimed Janet. "Maybe he'll get wild again!"
"Oh, no he won't!" laughed Uncle Frank. "He's only too glad now to live on the reservation and sell the baskets the squaws make. The Indian men don't like to work."
Running Horse, which was the queer name the Indian had chosen for himself, or which had been given him, walked along, wrapped in his blanket, though the day was a warm one. Perhaps he thought the blanket kept the heat out in summer and the cold in winter.