Davy’s heart skipped a beat and suddenly thumped violently. But he didn’t sit looking long. Not he. He knew what Billy Cody would do, and he knew what any herder with spunk would do. He clapped his heels against his mule and away he went straight for the Indians. They might be Kickapoos. Kickapoos from the reservation frequently visited the cattle camps to beg for food and clothes; and many of them would carry off more than was given to them. A sick steer was their especial delight. They picked up strays, too, when they could. So likely enough these Indians were Kickapoos. Davy was not afraid of Kickapoos, although, of course, any Indian might be surly when he had the advantage. On galloped Davy, urging his mule. The Indians had seen him, for they tried to quicken their pace; but the lame steer held them back. Good for the lame steer, who could not travel fast! So Davy rapidly drew nearer. As he approached he made up his mind that these were not Kickapoos. They wore blankets like any Indians, but their hair was not worn like that of Kickapoos, whose hair was combed back smoothly. And they were not Osages――another reservation tribe of Kansas. The hair of the Osages was roached like a rooster’s comb. No; by their braids and by the way they rode these were Cheyennes or Sioux! Whew! That was bad. They did not even glance around as Davy rode upon them. Still at a gallop he rode around them, and whirling short, bravely throwing up his hand, halted squarely in the path. The baker’s dozen of steers (there were thirteen of them) bunched and stopped, panting. The Indians stared fixedly at Davy; two of them rode forward. Yes, they were Cheyennes, except one Sioux; and the leader was Tall Bull! “What are you doing with those cattle?” demanded Davy. “Go. Our cattle,” grunted Tall Bull. “They aren’t, either,” retorted Davy. “They’re my cattle from that herd yonder.” “No,” denied Tall Bull, angrily; his companion’s eyes were blazing. Davy felt them, and the hot eyes of the four other Indians, in the rear. “You go. Our cattle.” “Where’d you get them, then?” demanded Davy. “Buy ’em. Take ’em an’ eat ’em. Puckachee! (Get out!)” “Puckachee yourself,” answered Davy, now angry. “You can’t have ’em. I take ’em back. Savvy? They belong to Russell, Majors & Waddell. See that brand?” The two Indians grunted one to another. The Indians behind called in their own language. “Get out of the way,” ordered Davy, boldly. “Gee, Buck! Whitey! Gee-haw!” The cattle began to turn; but Tall Bull interposed by reining his pony and forcing them around again. “No whoa-haws; ours. Buy ’em. How much?” “Can’t sell ’em. Whoa-haw cattle. Gee, Buck! Get out of the way, you two.” “Give one. Give one, take rest.” “No!” stormed Davy, stoutly. “None.”