Thunder Horse, the Kiowa, he was, again: the outlaw Indian whom Terry had first encountered among the Delawares on the emigrant trail into Kansas, a year ago, and who had been an enemy ever since. He was a drunken rascal, was Thunder Horse; nothing seemed too mean for him to try. He even had stolen George and Virgie Stanton; but Terry had helped them to get away. Terry recognized Thunder Horse--and Thunder Horse evidently had recognized Terry, and Shep, too. Terry had pelted him with eggs, and Shep had nipped him in the calf. So Thunder Horse smiled at Harry and scowled at Terry and Shep. "Which one?" asked Harry, aside. "The ugly one?" "Yes. Look out for _him_. You'd better." "All good. Like um white boy. White boy give 'Rapaho shoog, coff," wheedled the chief, advancing; and now another of the Arapahoes rode forward. "Him Little Raven; big chief," he said, speaking English very clearly. "Me Left Hand. Little Raven talk not much English. I talk for him. Where you going?" "To the mines, of course." "You see two men in wagon?" "Yes." "We no harm them. They run, then we yell and they run faster. Little Raven want to ask if you give him a little sugar and coffee." "Haven't any to spare." "Give him a little sugar, little coffee, little bread, and mebbe he show you where heap gold in the mountains." "No, no," refused Harry. "Stand back, all of you," for the other Indians were edging toward the wagon, from either side. Jenny smelled them, and had grown restive---trembled, snorted, and Shep maintained a constant growling from underneath the wagon. "All right." And Left Hand spoke gutturally for the information of Little Raven, who nodded. "Brave boys. Not foolish and run. Good-bye." Little Raven insisted on shaking hands with Harry and with Terry. "G'bye," he grunted. "Heap boy. No run," when suddenly Terry cried, past him, to a figure on horseback: "Get out o' there!" During the leave-taking Thunder Horse had sidled in with the others, and pressing along the wagon, behind Harry (who had considerable to watch with one pair of eyes and one gun), was stealthily thrusting his arm in under the edge of the canvas hood. "Get out o' there!" yelped Terry. Harry turned hastily--but there was a snarl, a whoop, and back careened Thunder Horse, on his pony, with Shep hanging to his moccasin. The moccasin and the foot within it, extending below the cart, and so convenient, had been too much for Shep. Besides, their owner was up to mischief! Shep knew him of old. Thunder Horse kicked vigorously--and while the other Indians laughed and shouted, and Shep held hard, shaking and worrying, he jerked his knife from somewhere--flung himself low and stabbed at his black shaggy tormentor. "Shep!" called Terry, alarmed. "Quit it! Here!"