"This was the gift of a fighting chief to a fighting chief when they met
in a beleaguered town, with spoil, and blood, and misery, and sick women
and children round them; and it goes to a strong man, if he will take
the gift of a lad."

At that moment there was a cry from beyond the troopers, and it was
answered from among them by a kinsman of Pango Dooni, and presently, the
troopers parting, down the line came Tang-a-Dahit, with bandaged head
and arm.

In greeting, Pango Dooni raised the pistol which Cumner's Son had given
him and fired it into the air. Straightway five hundred men did the
same.

Dismounting, Tang-a-Dahit stood before his father. "Have the Dakoon's
vermin fastened on the young bull at last?" asked Pango Dooni, his eyes
glowering. "They crawled and fastened, but they have not fed," answered
Tang-a-Dahit in a strong voice, for his wounds had not sunk deep. "By
the Old Well of Jahar, which has one side to the mountain wall, and one
to the cliff edge, I halted and took my stand. The mare and the sorrel
of Cumner's Son I put inside the house that covers the well, and I
lifted two stones from the floor and set them against the entrance. A
beggar lay dead beside the well, and his dog licked his body. I killed
the cur, for, following its master, it would have peace, and peace is
more than life. Then, with the pole of the waterpail, I threw the dead
dog across the entrance upon the paving stones, for these vermin of
plainsmen will not pass where a dead dog lies, as my father knows well.
They came not by the entrance, but they swarmed elsewhere, as ants swarm
upon a sandhill, upon the roofs, and at the little window where the lamp
burns.

"I drove them from the window and killed them through the doorway, but
they were forty to one. In the end the pest would have carried me to
death, as a jackal carries the broken meats to his den, if our hillsmen
had not come. For an hour I fought, and five of them I killed and seven
wounded, and then at the shouts of our hillsmen they fled at last. Nine
of them fell by the hands of our people. Thrice was I wounded, but my
wounds are no deeper than the scratches of a tiger's cub."

"Hadst thou fought for thyself the deed were good," said Pango Dooni,
"but thy blood was shed for another, and that is the pride of good men.
We have true men here, but thou art a true chief and this shalt thou
wear."

He took the rich belt from his waist, and fastened it round the waist of