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Panting, the warriors listened. They murmured and shrugged, as the words stung.

“Those whites shoot very straight. The little one shoots the straightest of any. They must have many guns. They shoot once and without loading they shoot again,” argued Lame Buffalo.

“You talk foolish,” thundered Cut Nose. “These whites cannot keep shooting. All we need to do is to charge swift and not stop, and when we reach them their guns will be empty. Shall Cheyennes draw back and leave three brothers and a good pony lying on the prairie? These whites will go on and join their whoa-haw train, and tell how they three, from behind dead mules, fought off the whole Cheyenne nation! Or shall we send our squaws against them, to kill them! The little white boy will laugh,” and he pointed at Dave. “He will not want to be a Cheyenne; he will stay white. Cheyennes are cowards.”

Through the jostling company ran a hot murmur; but Lame Buffalo, especially scolded, almost burst.

“No!” he yelled. “Cheyennes are not cowards! I am a Cheyenne. I can kill those three whites myself. I will go alone. I ask no help.”