“But look at that ball whiz!” murmured Dig, as John Peep sent in another one. “Why didn’t the other fellows want him to play on the team? He could have somebody run for him; and he can bat, even if he has a short leg.” “Just didn’t want him, that’s all,” said Chet. “But I notice that our nine has got licked in almost every game they’ve played. And it’s particularly weak in the pitching—Say! look at that one, will you?” “E-i! e-i! e-i!” “Yee-ee-yip! Yee-ee-yip!” The crowd went wild. A boy had stepped up to the plate and tried to hit the ball. John Peep’s curve seemed fairly to dodge the bat as the boy swung at it. Old Scarface—as serious as a deacon—slammed the ball back to his grandson and squatted for the next one. The old Indian took the matter as seriously as he took everything else in life. Nobody ever saw the ancient Cheyenne “crack a smile,” as Dig expressed it. Two more balls followed the first in quick succession, and the batter tossed away his stick in disgust. He had only fanned. Then John saw the two boys on horseback, and he tossed the ball to another boy. Scarface stepped out of the catcher’s place and stood with folded arms beside the field. It was beneath his dignity to play ball save when his grandson wanted to pitch. Nobody in Hardpan but Scarface could “hold” the young Cheyenne’s delivery. The Indian lad ran over to the horsepath and asked Chet: “You going to take trail?” “Yes,” said Chet. “We’re hiking for Grub Stake.” “A-i! So I hear. You’re not going near that shaft I showed you—that way into the old mine?” “No,” replied Chet. “We’re not taking that trail.” “All right. You much better keep away from there,” said John, and turned away. “Say!” cried the too curious Digby, “who burned out your shack, John?” “Never you mind,” returned the Indian lad, and he showed anger in the expression of his face at this reminder of his loss. “I’ll get my pay for that.” “I hope you do,” commented Chet soothingly, and preparing to ride on. “We’re all very thankful to you, John. My father would like to see you, if you’ll go up to the house. You know, he’s laid up for a while.” John Peep looked back at him sharply. “Ugh!” he grunted, in what Dig called his “red Indian style.” “Ugh! Your father give Indian cast-off suit of clothes. Your mother give Indian meal of victuals. Then shake hand, say, ‘Good-bye, Injun!’ I don’t need those things, Chet Havens.” “Well! by all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland!” murmured Dig. But Chet said calmly: “That isn’t the way my parents will treat you, John.” The Indian boy was still flushed and angry. “That isn’t even my name!” he exclaimed. “‘John’ is white boy’s name. They make me give it when I go to school. But it does not belong to me.” “Say! what is your name?” demanded Dig, his curiosity getting the better of his courtesy. “Never you mind,” responded the Indian boy sharply, and turned away again.