"It certainly was," I replied. "I wonder who the man is. Anyhow, he's not coming back, so let's go and pick up his arrow."
CHAPTER IV Racing the Storm
Walking over to where the two wolves lay, we soon found the arrow, its head buried out of sight in the hard ground, showing with what force it had come from the bow. It was carefully made of a bit of some hard wood, scraped down to the proper diameter, and fitted with three feathers—eagle feathers, Dick said—one-third as long as the shaft, very neatly bound on with some kind of fine sinew.
"Looks like a Ute arrow," remarked my companion, as he stooped to pick it up; "yet the man was a Mexican, I am sure. I suppose he must have got it from the Indians."
"Do the Utes use copper arrow-heads?" I asked.
"No, they don't. They use iron or steel nowadays. Why do you ask?"
"Because this arrow-head is copper," I replied.
"Why, so it is!" cried Dick, rubbing the soil from the point on his trouser-leg. "That's very odd. I never saw one before. I feel pretty sure the Indians never use copper: it is too soft. This bit seems to take an edge pretty well, though. See, the point doesn't seem to have been damaged by sticking into the ground; and it has been filed pretty sharp, too; or, what is more likely, rubbed sharp on a stone. It has evidently been made by hand from a piece of native copper."