Johnny avoided any cover, lest it be thought that he stole up on them. A few seconds later he was seen. Contrary to the white man’s nice little laws, these Indians were armed. Johnny caught the flash of the sun’s rays on the polished barrels, but he continued to walk toward them. Thunder Bird turned his head in the boy’s direction as he advanced. Gallup had recognized Johnny, and he cursed him. Johnny ignored Aaron. When he reached the chief’s side, the boy’s hands moved until the tips of his fingers rested against his forehead. It was the sign of friendship. The chief answered and motioned to Johnny to sit down. Instead of complying, Johnny took the drum from the player’s hands, and, holding it before Thunder Bird, dropped a handful of dust upon it. It was symbolic—the omen of disaster. A murmur passed around the circle of squatting Indians. The old chief caught the boy’s meaning. “Nah!” he grunted angrily. “My tongue speaks no lie,” Johnny answered flatly. “It is the drum of death! Many men are in the hills. They are near. They no ask question—just shoot.” Thunder Bird’s head moved back and forth assuredly. A sarcastic, mocking grunt broke from his lips. “White men run,” he announced. “All gone.” He referred to the other members of Gallup’s party. Not knowing this, Johnny wondered if his play was doomed. “Some go, many more come, chief,” he went on without a sign of wavering. “Piute women rub ashes in their hair tonight. Me good friend with you, Thunder Bird. Me tell um you, no take Gallup—white man want him. Man Gale, he is dead; man Kent, he dead, too. Make talk—plenty talk. Big Jim come. Many guns come with him. Mebbe so you remember Mormon fight? Plenty Injun die; no fires in the lodges. Now come so happen again.” And Johnny stooped and threw a handful of dust into his own face; from his lips came the doleful notes of the chant for the dead. Thunder Bird stirred uneasily. The boy, wisely, had made no demands. What he had said had been only the airing of his sadness over the calamity facing the tribe. His talk held truths as Thunder Bird knew—the Mormon raid, for instance. Doubts for the safety of his band began to assail the chief. He saw his braves staring at Johnny. That individual was keenly alive to the fact that the issue hung in the balance right now. If his bluff were called he would be in for it. Bluff was one of Thunder Bird’s weapons also. He availed himself of it now. “We keep Gallup,” he said. “No take away him. Men not come. If men come, where they be?” Johnny’s hand was being called. He did not flinch. With a look that said a thousand men surrounded them he lifted his hand and began sweeping it around the edge of the bowl. “They are there,” he said. His hand pointed toward the spot where Madeiras lay. _Bang, bang, bang_, came the sound of the Basque’s gun.