“Well, I _was_,” Horacles replied, enjoying himself every moment. “But Mr. Forsythe” (this was the Agent) “can’t get over from the Post in time to be present this afternoon. It’s very kind of him to want to be present when I start my new enterprise, and I appreciate it, boys, I can tell you. So I sent him word I wouldn’t think of opening without him, and it’s to be to-morrow morning.” While Horacles was speaking thus, the Indians had gathered about to listen. It was plain that they understood that this was a white man’s war; their great, grave, watching faces showed it. Young squaws, half-hooded in their shawls, looked on with bright eyes; a boy who had been sitting out on the steps playing a pipe, stopped his music, and came in; the aged Pounded Meat, wrapped in scarlet and shrunk with years to the appearance of a dried apple, watched with eyes that still had in them the primal fire of life; tall in a corner stood the silver-haired High Bear, watching too. Did they understand the white man’s war lying behind the complacent smile of Horacles and the dangerous smile of the lounging Scipio? The red man is grave when war is in question; all the Indians were perfectly still. “Wish you boys could be there to give me a good send-off,” continued Horacles. The pipe-playing Indian boy must have caught some flash of something beneath Scipio’s smile, for his eye went to Scipio’s pistol--but it returned to Scipio’s face. Horacles spoke on. “Fine line of fresh Eastern goods, dry goods, candies, and--hee-hee!--free lunch. Mr. Le Moyne, I want to thank you publicly for that idea.” “Y’u’re welcome to it. Guess I’ll hardly be over to-morrow, though. With such a competitor as you, I expect I’ll have to stay with my job and hustle.” “Ah, well,” simpered Horacles, “I couldn’t have done it by myself. My Uncle--say, boys!” (Horacles in the elation of victory now melted to pure good-will) “do come see me to-morrow. It’s all business, this, you know. There’s no hard feelings?” The pipe boy couldn’t help looking at the pistol again. “Not a feeling!” cried Scipio. And he clapped Horacles between his little round shoulders. With head on one side, he looked down along his lengthy, jocular nose at Horacles for a moment. Then his eye shone upon the company like the edge of a knife--and they laughed at him because he was laughing so contagiously at them; a soft laugh, like the fall of moccasins. Often the Indian will join, like a child, in mirth which he does not comprehend. High Bear’s smile shone from his corner at young Scipio, whom he fancied so much that he had offered him his fourteenth daughter to wed as soon as his leg should be well. But Scipio had sorrowfully explained to the father that he was already married--which was true, but which I fear would in former days have proved no impediment to him. Perhaps some day I may tell you of the early marriages of Scipio as Scipio in hospital narrated them to me.