He threw off his hat and slicker, stamped to shake off the moisture that clung to his boots, sat down, and prepared to make himself at home.

“Go ahead, Injun,” said Jim Walker.  “You was just at th’ most interestin’ part.”

Injun rose, walked to a bucket in a corner, poured himself a dipper of water, and drank calmly.  Then he returned, sat down and looked straight ahead of him.  There was a painful tension, of which Dorgan did not seem to be aware.  Buck Higgins tried to dispel it.

“Perceed, Injun,” he said.  “We’re all a-waitin’ on you.”

Without embarassment, Injun continued to say nothing.  Bill Jordan began to show signs of nervousness, which finally broke into speech.

“Had anythin’ t’ eat, Henry?” he asked.

“Nope.  Too busy drinkin’ an’ things, at th’ Cut,” replied Dorgan, who, however, showed no signs of intoxication.

“Better go out t’ th’ kitchen, an’ rustle yourself somep’n’,” Bill suggested.

“Wong’ll get crazy if I monkey with his grub,” objected Henry.

“I’ll take care o’ Wong.  G’wan, you don’t wanta be hungry,” Bill said.

“I c’d do with some beans an’ coffee,” Dorgan allowed, and took himself off.

After he was gone, there was another period of silence.  It was so unusual for Injun to talk at all, and the effort to start him again having failed, it seemed now to occur to everybody that it probably would be better to let him alone until he got in the mood again.  Presently Whitey saw Injun’s eyes take on their former faraway look, as though they were gazing into his father’s tepee fire, or into the red faces of his kinsmen.

“What did the White Chief do when he went back?” Whitey asked softly.

“Him go back and get plenty soldiers,” responded Injun.  “And come get my mamma’s brother, and tie him on pony, with him face looking at pony tail.  My mamma’s brother him lose much blood where stick break through chest.  Him almost died when get to Fort.  White Chief put him in log calaboose.  Him stay there long, long time; mebbe so twenty, thirty moons.

“Then him dig dirt in floor with hands, and cover up when they bring him bread and water—­and he hide his hands all the time, fingers so much bleed.  Then when dark and no moon, him dig out last dirt, him come up outside.  Him run sixty mile, him come my father, him tell my father.”

“My father he say to our people, ‘Now, we fight, and we fight heap!’”

Injun paused for a moment, as one considering and about to utter judgment.  “White man bad.  Injun he no bad,” he said.

Injun’s story was concluded.  He rose and walked from the bunk house.

There was a moment’s hush broken by Jim Walker.  “Who in thunder d’ye s’pose that White Chief was?” he demanded.  “Gee!  We sure butted into some real Injun history.”