"Don't see 'em, do you?" he invited. "'Five hundred of them'--'raiding the stage line'--'plundering the stations'--'killing the emigrants'--'burning the settlements'!" He was mimicking the two fugitives. "Five hundred fiddlesticks! That's too many Indians at one time. Besides, there aren't any settlements 'round here to burn, except at the mountains, and those two lunatics haven't been to the mountains yet. And if we 'cut loose' and 'rode for our lives,' where'd we ride to? Might better save our strength and dig a hole." "Don't you believe them, then?" "No. You can't believe cowards. I don't blame them any for running away from five hundred Indians, but it was right mean to run away from _us_. So I sized up that a husky outfit who'd leave a lame man and a boy to escape on a mule and a buffalo while they went ahead with a good team and wagon couldn't be depended on in talk or action either. Why, they had guns enough there to fight a week! Guess they were on a hunting trip across, and are nervous. G'lang, Duke! Jenny! Let's keep going." "There are Indians coming, just the same," presently informed Terry, who could not help but peep behind. "Two--three--five," pronounced Harry. "They're the five hundred whittled down to fact. We needn't pay any attention to the four hundred and ninety-five others yet. You watch Jenny, and Shep and I'll watch these fellows." The Indians, five of them, were rapidly approaching at a lope, down the stage trail. When they were within two hundred yards Harry, uttering a sudden "Whoa!" fell back to the rear of the wagon and, grabbing the shot-gun, faced about, and raised his hand as sign for them to stay their distance. They slackened in a jiffy, but one rode ahead, to talk. They were armed with bows and lances; half clothed in blankets and moccasins; appeared very dirty but seemed good-natured. The old fellow who rode ahead was a stout, grinning Indian--chief, evidently, by the feather in his greasy hair. "How?" he grunted, from his ambling spotted pony. "No shoot. 'Rapaho. No hurt um white man. Chase um. Heap fun. See wagon men? Heap fun." "Keep back," warned Harry, over the barrel of the shot-gun. "No fun here. We don't run." "There's Thunder Horse, Harry!" hissed Terry, who, guarding the team, had an eye also upon the Indians. The stout spokesman on the spotted pony was really quite good-looking; three of the others were not much worse; but the fifth in the squad was entirely different--his hair was cut short on the one side and left long on the other, instead of being in two braids, and his naturally ugly face was pitted with small-pox scars. His blanket was the dirtiest of all the blankets, his features the greasiest, his mouth the coarsest; and now as he also tried to smile, his blood-shot eyes glared fiercely.