All four laughed, for there was a humanness about the whole thing that was amusing. The boys and the Blackfoot were delighted, while the expression of Deerfoot left no doubt of his pleasure over the prize he had gained. Many a wild horse had been brought to earth by the skilfully thrown lasso or riata, hobbled and mastered by the horseman who had his own animal to give him aid, but whoever knew of such a thing being done by a single person without help in any form whatever! And yet you have been shown that that was precisely what was done by Deerfoot the Shawanoe. Mul-tal-la quite overwhelmed his youthful friend with praise. Addressing him in the tongue of the Blackfeet—for he did not wish the boys to understand his earnest words—he declared that the feat was one that no other living man could perform. There were fine horsemen among the different tribes, and Mul-tal-la had witnessed many of their exhibitions of skill, but there was none to be compared with Deerfoot. The dusky fellow was specially ardent in praising the deftness, power and quickness with which the Shawanoe had thrown the wild stallion without bridle or saddle or aid of any kind. “See the fellow blush!” said the grinning Victor to his brother. “That shows that Mul-tal-la is praising Deerfoot. I never saw an Indian blush, for it’s too much like a negro trying to do it, but Deerfoot can’t help showing his confusion.” “There,” added George, watching the countenance of their friend, “he has told Mul-tal-la to stop, and he daren’t refuse. If I had half the smartness of Deerfoot I should expect to sit down and hear everybody praise me. They couldn’t help it.” “I don’t know about that. _I_ don’t wait for folks to praise _me_.” “Because you would grow gray before they did it. Hark!” Sitting astride of the motionless stallion their friend called: “Will my brothers give Deerfoot a name for his horse?” “Yes,” George hastened to answer; “call him Dewdrop.” The Shawanoe shook his head. The inappropriateness of the name was apparent, even to the Blackfoot. Indeed, the proposer was in jest. “I have it,” said Victor. “Make it Whirlwind.” “My brother speaks with the words of wisdom,” replied the Shawanoe. “His name shall be Whirlwind, though it would not be bad if it were Thunderbolt, like the steed that was conquered many moons ago.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XI PHYSICIAN AND PATIENT. THUS the noble black stallion was named. If ever a person felt proud of his prize it was Deerfoot, the Shawanoe. The wild horse had been literally cut out from the herd of which he was monarch and made captive by the dusky youth. The battle between the two was a fair one, and the Indian was the victor, and never was a more striking victory won.