The Indians all were armed with bows and arrows. Suddenly the old Indian with Tall Bull strung his bow like lightning, fitted arrow to string, and Davy found the steel head quivering on taut string within six inches of his chest. The black eyes of the Indian glared into his, the swarthy face was fierce with a scowl of hatred. Davy did not dare to move; even if he had had a gun or pistol he could not have used it. The arrow would have been through him before he could pull trigger. There he must sit, waiting for the string to be released. His flesh in front of the arrow point shrank and stung, as if already the keen point had driven into it. If the Indian’s finger should slip――! Half a minute passed; it seemed to Davy like an hour. Tall Bull spoke again. “Two; give two,” he urged meaningly. “Take rest.” [Illustration: “TWO; GIVE TWO,” HE URGED, MEANINGLY. “TAKE REST”] Davy shook his head. He felt white and queer, but his mind was made up. “No,” he answered, trying to speak naturally, but suspecting that his voice was rather shaky. “None.” The arrow head was still at his breast; the Indian’s bow was still stretched taut until it quivered with the strain; the Indian’s eyes glared, his face scowled. Davy did not glance aside. He was afraid to. “One,” now urged Tall Bull. “Boy give one, or mebbe boy die an’ lose all.” Davy shook his head. “No.” Now another Indian rode forward. With the corner of his eye Davy saw that he was the Sioux. The Sioux spoke to the two Cheyennes; they grunted answer, and the bow of the old warrior slowly relaxed, as if it hated to. The Sioux extended his hand to Davy. He was a young buck, and good looking, with a sober cast of features. “How, cola? (How do you do, friend?)” he said; and Davy shook hands with him. “All right. Brave boy. You go. Take cattle. Goodby.” “Goodby,” said Davy. He promptly turned the lame steer aside and the others followed. He did not delay a moment. Would the Indians try to stop him again? No; they let him work. Driving the steers he started on the back trail, past the three Indians in the rear. Every moment he expected to feel an arrow plump into him between his shoulders; but he did not even look around. He attended to business. When at last he did look around, the six Indians were riding along at a jog. Davy quickened his pace, and when he arrived with his little bunch at the herd he was glad indeed. He had proved his mettle. He felt that nobody would have done better. VII DAVY CHANGES JOBS The Reverend Mr. Baxter came on herd soon; and Davy told him about the Indians. “You might have let them go, Davy,” said Mr. Baxter, “and nobody would have blamed you.” “Yes, sir; but I couldn’t,” answered Davy. “Well,” mused Mr. Baxter, gazing at him with a rueful smile, “I don’t believe I could either. But lots of fellows would. Six armed Indians are rather many for one unarmed boy to tackle. But right makes might, Davy.” “Yes,” agreed Davy. “I guess it does.”