The young Indian pointed to the pelt, which still hung carelessly over Joe's arm.
"Me give," he said. "Pawnee heap white man's friend."
"You mean you want to give me this skin?" cried Joe.
The young Indian grinned and nodded.
"Oh, no, Pashepaho! That pelt's worth good money. I have no use for it, and you ought to get a good price for it. I'm awfully much obliged all the same; it was fine of you to want to make me a present. I like you. You're square. Shake. You and I will be friends, shan't we?"
Pashepaho shook the hand that Joe extended to him. Joe dashed into the wagon and scrambled out again a moment later carrying a bright red necktie in his hand.
"Here, you take this. I'd like to make you a present. I know you like red. It'll look good on you."
Pashepaho took it eagerly, scrutinizing the brilliant bit of silk with the pleased smile of a child. Then he proceeded to wind it about his head, tying it in a knot in the back and letting the ends hang down over his shoulders.
"There! That looks fine! I knew it would be becoming to you," cried Joe, without an intimation that that was not the accustomed manner of wearing neckties.
The Indian looked from the boy to his father with a pleased grin. "You sleep?" he asked.