The leather-clad ranger gave a laugh that was not all a laugh, insomuch that it appeared to be a loud chuckle coming up from his boots. His thin face was a little wrinkled, and the tuft of hair upon his chin of the same iron-gray color as the scalp mentioned by the redskin; but no one would be apt to judge, taking into consideration the man's strength and stubborn endurance, that he was over seventy years of age. Yet such was the actual fact; for some fifty years this ranger had roamed the wild West from the frozen region of the polar seas to the torrid climes of the Isthmus; and everywhere had his name been reckoned a tower of honesty, strength and power. Though probably few men had had half of his experience among the redskins of the mountains and prairies, there was something so charmingly fresh in the remark of his red acquaintance that made the ranger more than smile. "Purty good fur ye, Yaller Hawk. I won't furgit yer name, and by hokey I reckon I'll plug ye yet, ef things keep on ther way they seem set on going. Az ter my name, thet's another goose. I don't s'pose ye ever hearn tell o' such a cuss az Pandy Ellis, now did ye?" Again that queer chuckle, for the Indian had slunk back, his black eyes fastened upon the ranger's face, with a sort of dazed expression. It appeared as though Pandy was known to him by report, if not personally. "Ugh! Sharp shot! Heavy knife! Big chief! Ugh!" "I reckon," returned the old ranger dryly. Half a moment passed, during which neither of them spoke. Pandy's grim features had resumed their usual aspect, and there was actually a scowl upon his face as he gazed steadily at the redskin. "Chief," said he at length, "fur I reckon I kin b'lieve ye that fur an' say ye air a chief, I'm going ter ax ye sum questions, an' I want square answers to every wun o' them. Fust o' all, what'd ye shoot at me fur?" and Pandy glanced at his shoulder, where a little tear told where the bullet had gone. "Me see through bushes; tink was Blackfoot squaw. Ugh!" "Yas, I reckon. Werry plausible, az ther feller sez, but two thin. Wal, we'll let that pass, seein' az no harm war done. I forgive ye, chief. Receive a benediction, my red brother. Let that lie pass ter yer credit. Now, my painted scorpion, look me full in the eye. _What hez Sitting Bull done wid my pard?_" This was uttered in a slow, but emphatic tone. The Indian either could not or would not understand; he shook his head. Pandy took a step forward, and his rifle was again raised menacingly. "Looky hyar, ye lump o' dough, I'm inquirin' respectin' Bolly Wherrit, the big rover o' thar plains. White Thunder, do ye understand?" Whether it was the hunter's threatening attitude that scared the warrior, or that he suddenly realized what was meant, can never be made manifest; certain it is he remembered just at this critical period. "Ugh! mean White Thunder; him dead."