“You shall be a warrior and get horses,” Iskatappe promised, “unless they make us presents of them.” “The Apache chief was Big Thunder,” Old Knife declared. “I know him. Red is his medicine, and as long as he carries that red shield nothing can kill him.” “Perhaps the Spanish chief knew, too,” Wolf proposed. “Of course, nobody wishes to fight against medicine.” “The Spanish soldier’s medicine was very weak,” remarked Iskatappe. Thus they chatted, waiting and watching. Pretty soon the Spanish, also, moved on, down river. There were at least six hundred of them, all mounted, and twice that number of unsaddled horses and mules, some packed with supplies. To jingle of trappings and murmur of voices they proceeded, in a long column. Rich Man, Old Knife, Wolf and Boy Scar Head followed, by the other river bank, keeping out of sight in the brush and hollows. At sunset the Spanish halted to form camp, beside the river. “We had better go in before dark,” Rich Man directed. “Or they might shoot at us. We had better go in while their pots are full, for my belly is empty.” So they rose boldly from their covert under the bank of the river, and crossed for the Spanish camp, their buffalo-robes tightly about them. The camp was spread out in a circle over a wide area. Several chiefs’ lodges had been set up, countless fires were smoking, horses whinnied, mules brayed, medicine pipes (horns) tooted, and a myriad of figures moved busily, getting water, going on herd, arranging the packs, marching to and fro as if in a dance, or clustering around the fires. These were the Spanish, were they, from the south? Scar Head had not supposed that so many could come so far, all together. The nation of the Spanish must be a great and powerful nation. A guard saw the Iskatappe file approaching. He shouted warning of them, and leveled his gun. Iskatappe lifted his hand in the peace sign. “Amigos――friends,” he called. He knew a little Spanish. So did most of the Pawnees――a little Spanish picked up from the Comanches and southern Utahs, and a little French picked up from the St. Louis traders who visited the Pawnee country. “Qué tiene――what do you want?” the guard demanded, stopping them with his gun. He was dressed in a blue cloth hunting-shirt with red trimmings, and leather wrappings upon his legs, and huge loose-topped leather moccasins reaching to his knees, and a broad-brimmed high-crowned hat with ribbons on it; and all his face was covered with bushy black hair. He was armed with a short-barreled gun, and a long knife in a scabbard. He certainly looked like a stout warrior. “El capitan,” Iskatappe replied, meaning that he wished to see the chief. Other Spanish soldiers came running. Their head warrior said: “Come,” and with the Iskatappe file stalking proudly after he led the way through the staring camp to the lodge of the chief.