“Says Yellow Hand and his men shot a few buffalo. The Kiowas said all right. Says he’s good Indian. Says white man tie him up and knock him in the head. Says holler just now in the dark because he feel good. Says he don’t know who come. Says if it’s all right for white man to try Comanche, then all right for Comanche to try white man. Says suppose if that man killed two Comanche women, then white man catch him for Comanche. Then Comanche try him plenty.” “How! How!” exclaimed Griswold. “Then they’d be willing to forget that I asked Yellow Hand to ride with me a while?” Griswold’s face was animated. He was working out some plan. The interpreter replied, after translating some Comanche and Spanish mixed: “Says, yes, sure. Comanches like this country. Comanches no want to fight. Says his young men will have bad hearts if they find two of their women killed. Says s’pose warrior gets killed—all right. S’pose woman gets killed, that’s plenty bad shame.” “Ask him what people this?” Griswold suddenly held up before Yellow Hand’s face the two moccasins which McMasters had brought with him from the Arbuckle Trail. The old savage looked once, twice, closely. His face underwent an astonishing change—was convulsed with surprise, grief, anger. He gave but one ejaculation and drew his blanket across his face. “Says his people! Says his family—his squaws! He know them shoe!” “Yellow Hand! Yellow Hand!” The officer shook the old chief roughly by the shoulder. “Listen to me! Chief of the Comanches, this is our council now! Me, I talk!” The soldier stripped back the blanket from the Comanche’s face. “Yellow Hand, for years we have been trying to get you to stop killing our people on the Staked Plains. The Great Father has always fought you fair. The Great Father never killed your women. The Great Father will put his blanket over his face when he hears of this thing. “Listen Yellow Hand! Chiefs do not break their word. If we follow the man who did that—that man who ran away—and bring him to you and give him to your people to try him in your village will you think that the Great Father is just in his heart?” “Says yes, he would.” The interpreter had made it plain. “Listen, Yellow Hand! I have been trying to make treaty with you. I have been trying to get a great piece of land here where the game is plenty for the Comanches and the Kiowas, a place where they could sit down. You have not answered me about that. I have followed you. I have fed you. I have not killed your women. “Listen, Yellow Hand! The white men are going west into your hunting country. The white men are coming north here. You see them. My young men with long knives are coming out too. They will surround you, as many as leaves on the trees. You can never kill them all. They have guns that shoot seven days.