ill's like one o' them big express trains you see at th'
Junction," Shorty hissed. "Takes him some time t' get started, but he
gets somewheres when he does."

Bill tried to look as though he hadn't heard this, and turned to Injun,
with what was supposed to be an expression of brotherly frankness on his
face. "Just among friends, Injun, d'ye think white folks as a class
stacks up perty good?"

Injun stared at Bill. "Huh," he grunted. "Mebbe some good, mebbe some
bad."

"O' course," said Bill, "they's good an' bad 'mongst 'em, but I mean t'
stack 'em up against Injuns, as a whole tribe, see?"

"Injuns same way. Mebbe some good, mebbe some bad."

This did not seem to be getting anywhere, and Bill became more personal.
"Now, Injun, honest," he said, "don't you think your people are
underdogs in these here conditions the whites have forced 'em into, an'
that they got a constant grouch against most whites?"

"My people good people. Him see straight," Injun replied, with dignity.

Bill was sorry now that he had started on this line of attack. He knew
that the Min-i-ko-wo-ju tribe, a branch of the Sioux or Dakotas, of
which Injun was a member, had been treated very fairly by Mr. Sherwood,
Whitey's father. That largely through the influence of Mr. Sherwood,
aided and abetted by John Big Moose, the educated Dakota, the
Min-i-ko-wo-jus had come in for their share of the recently discovered
gold mine. He also knew that gratitude was a strong factor in the Indian
character.

But with all his boasted knowledge of his red brothers, what Bill did
not know was what Injun was thinking of, and that was something
unconnected with his white brothers, or their justice or injustice to
his kind. It was something induced by the stillness of the night,
following the storm. Thoughts of another night, when Injun was not in a
long, narrow bunk-house room, surrounded by booted cowboy friends, but
in a tepee, dimly lighted by a central fire, around which squatted his
serious-faced, copper-hued kinsmen, smoking their long pipes, and
telling of their deeds and mishaps.

And when his mind was fixed on a subject, Injun--like other Indians--was
not to be deflected by the thoughts of others. Bill might talk and talk
of justice and injustice, or about cows or cartridges; Injun's mind
would stay put, and when he spoke, if it was two hours afterwards, it
would be of that night in the tepee.

But it was not that long before the silence that had fal