Inside the lodge the American soldier grinned at Scar Head. Scar Head grinned back. “Hello,” said the soldier. Scar Head had heard that word several times. Now he blurted it, himself. “H’lo.” This was the end of the conversation, but Scar Head did a lot of thinking. He well knew where the horse was. Skidi had stolen it and hidden it out, and boasted of his feat. Now Skidi was talking of keeping the red-hair. That did not seem right. The Americans were brave. If somebody――a boy――should go out and bring the horse in, then Skidi might not dare to claim it, and White Wolf would send it and the red-hair on to Pike, and there would be no more trouble. Yes, being an American, himself (as they had said), Scar Head decided that he ought to help the other Americans. He would get the horse. IV ON THE TRAIL OF THE SPANIARDS Early in the morning, before yet even the squaws were stirring, Scar Head slipped out to get the horse. He found it picketed near the river, just where Skidi had cleverly concealed it. He led it in and tied it short, before the lodge door. Then he crept back to bed again. It would be safe, for nobody would dare remove it from the limits of the chiefs lodge. The squaws were up first, of course, to start the fires and prepare the breakfasts. Charakterik’s two wives, an old one and a young one, arose and went outside. Lying quiet Scar Head heard them talking. “Someone has brought a horse,” said the young squaw. “It is a Pawnee horse.” “That is queer,” said the old squaw. “Who is making White Wolf such a present? This must be the horse that was stolen from the Americans. The thief has changed his heart, and grown afraid.” “Or else it is a marriage gift,” giggled the young squaw. “Someone is looking for a wife in our lodge.” “Who is there, to be married?” the old squaw demanded. “We are the only women, so it must be that someone is in love with me,” the young squaw giggled again. “You!” scoffed the old squaw. “Who would look at you? You are not worth a horse. No; the horse offering is made for me.” And they both laughed. They knew better than to rouse Charakterik and tell him. Their business was to get the breakfast, and let him discover the horse, himself. White Wolf and the American soldier were still snoozing upon their buffalo-robe couches. Pretty soon Scar Head could wait no longer. He went outside, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and pretended to be surprised by the horse. “Whose horse is that?” he queried. “Ask it, and maybe you will know more than we do.” “Who brought it?” “That is none of our affair; nor of yours, either. It was here when we came out.” “It had not been here very long,” added the young squaw, to the elder. “See? The ground is only little trampled.” “If you want to know where it came from,” continued the old squaw, to Scar Head, “you should trail it back, instead of asking silly questions.” “Yes, and get into trouble. A gift is a gift, and not to be doubted,” the young squaw added.