Stabs-by-Mistake (that was really the name of the old chief, and not a joke of Mills’) now beckoned Pete into the middle of the circle. Two or three young braves danced around him, while the drums beat and all the Indians shouted and sang, and then the braves seized him, pretended to grab something from him with their hands, and ran with this imaginary thing to some bushes outside the camp. They disappeared in these bushes, speedily reappeared holding up their hands to show they were empty, and came back to the circle.
“I suppose they dropped his old name in the bushes!” Joe laughed.
“Sure,” said Mills.
Now Stabs-by-Mistake rose to make another speech. Pete stood before him, and he talked for two or three minutes right at him, with many gestures, while the Indians listened. The boys could see that he had not yet given him a new name, and all the Blackfeet were waiting, excited, to see what the new name was going to be. Finally, Stabs-by-Mistake laid his hand on Pete’s shoulder and spoke very solemnly. Then he spoke the new name. As he spoke it, he gave Pete a great slap on the back as a sort of period to his oration, and at the same instant the entire circle of Indians broke out into shouts of laughter. Pete looked sheepish, and came back toward the Ranger, red and grinning.
“Well, what’s your name now?” Mills asked.
“He made a big talk about giving me the name of a great chief, gone to the Sand Hills long ago, and then he said it was Lazy-Boy-Afraid-to-Work. That’s why they are all laughing.”
Mills laughed, too. “He’s got your number, Pete,” said he.
Now another chief was making a speech, and Pete grinned at Mills.
“You’re in for it now,” he chuckled. “Yellow Wolf says they’re going to give you an Indian name.”
“Oh, help!” Mills exclaimed.