The transformation in Steve's appearance was shortly even greater, for Murray was able to furnish him with a "check" shirt and black silk neckerchief.
"Buckskin trousers'll have to do, my boy. No boots in camp, but I can knock the wrinkles out of this head-piece for you."
It was a black felt hat, and not very badly worn. Murray himself always wore one, but the supply had not been good enough for a long time to allow Steve to do the same.
"Now, Steve, I'm going to make old Two Knives give you the best mount in camp—good as mine."
Such a war-party never carries any slow horses with it, but there were some better than others, and the chief was as anxious as Steve that his "scouts" should be well mounted. Otherwise they might not be able to get back to him with any information they might pick up.
"Plenty of ammunition, Steve. Never mind any other kind of baggage, except some jerked meat. We may have to live on that."
There was no need for To-la-go-to-de to urge them. Not a minute was thrown away in their rapid preparations, and then the whole band turned out to see them ride away.
"I tell you what, Steve," said Murray, "we're not dressed in the latest fashion, but I haven't felt so much like a white man for years. I'll act like one, too."
There was a flash of pain in his eyes as he said that. Could it be he had ever done anything unworthy of his race and training?
Perhaps, for he had ridden on a great many warpaths with the fierce and merciless Lipans.