“Bill,” he said, “you’re allus tellin’ us somethin’ ‘bout somethin’ what we don’t know nothin’ ‘bout, with th’ idee of gettin’ us t’ think you’re a pretty wise feller.  Now, all this you’ve bin tellin’ us ’bout Injuns sounds reason’ble, but if you want us to really b’lieve it, you’ve got t’ show us.  Ain’t that so, fellers?”

The others, thus appealed to, nodded solemnly.

“How’m I goin’ t’ prove it?” asked Bill, thus driven into a corner.

“By gettin’ Injun t’ talk,” Charlie answered.  “An’ furthermore I’ll betcha a can of peaches or a apple pie for each one of this gang, all ’round, that you can’t prove it.”

Canned peaches are regarded as a great luxury in the West, or were at that time, to say nothing of apple pies, and Bill considered the matter.  Moreover, his reputation was at stake, and that was a bigger thing to him than peaches or apple pie either.  After careful thought he spoke.

“I’ll have t’ go you,” he said, “but there’s two conditions to this here contest.”

“Give ’em a name,” said Charlie.

“Th’ first is, that Injun’s gotta be among friends.”

“We’re all his friends,” Charlie said.  “Won’t we do?”

“Yes, just us an’ Whitey, if he’s along,” Bill agreed.  “The next condition is, that I don’t agree t’ make Injun talk direct on no subject.  F’r instance, if I asks him what he thinks ‘bout bein’ barred out o’ that there school, I don’t promise he’ll tell me right out.  He may spring some tale or yarn that shows what he thinks; mebbe he will, but I don’t claim t’ get no exact expression of his feelin’s in th’ matter.”

“Them conditions goes,” Charlie agreed, “don’t they, fellers?”

The “fellers” agreed that they did, and it now only remained to await the coming of Injun.  He was Whitey’s guest at the ranch house that night, the night of the last day of Whitey’s freedom from school.  As it was early, no doubt the boys would soon appear at the bunk house, to listen to the sort of Arabian Nights’ entertainment that was afforded by the tales of the cowpunchers.

There was a momentary lull in the talk of the men, a lull in keeping with the outer night, which was still and very dark.  Presently a faint light flickered across the southern windows of the bunk house, followed by a low rumble in the northeast.

“Storm in th’ mountains,” volunteered Jim.

Another moment of silence was followed by a brighter glare, as the sky in the south caught the reflection of the northern lightning.  The former rumble was succeeded by a more distinct series of crashes, as though the storm gods of Indian belief were warming up to their work.

“Reck’n she’s comin’ this way,” said Bill Jordan.

There was the sighing of a gentle breeze through the cottonwoods, then a glare that shamed the oil lamps, and, so fast that it almost might be said to trip on the light, a crash that caused the men to turn and regard one another, almost in awe.