It takes a great deal of civilization to make a South-western Indian, of any tribe, understand the white man's idea that his horse is still his own after it has been fairly stolen. To the Indian's mind, the theft gives the thief even a better title than he could acquire by paying money, and the biggest brave of any band is almost sure to be its most successful and renowned horse-thief.
The Lipans were specially well pleased over their morning's work, for they had won all that plunder without the loss of a single warrior.
The fate of the three prisoners was a matter to be thought over. To-la-go-to-de was by no means sure he had no farther use for them. He could wait till his braves should return from the examination he had ordered of the plain below the valley. It was less than an hour before they came back, and in a remarkable hurry, with the news of the approach of the main body of the pale-faces.
Old Two Knives merely nodded his head. His captives had told him the truth. But that number of white men would not be likely to attack at once so strong a band as his own. A full company of regular cavalry would hardly have been enough to scare him, for the Lipans are second to no other in their fighting qualities, and these were picked and chosen warriors.
"Pale-face come. Laugh at him."
Captain Skinner and his men saw nothing to laugh at when they rode near enough to understand the condition of affairs in their camp.
The blow had fallen upon them so suddenly that, for some moments after they halted on the plain, half a mile away, not a man could say a word.
"It's our fault, Cap. We ort to have follered your advice."
"Ort not to have left the camp."
"You was right."