heels against his pony's ribs, and tore after. The medicine-man and Baroney tore, too, on a course of their own.
The yellow pony was a fast pony, well trained. He had been stolen from the Comanches, whose horses were the best. Scar Head rode light—a boy in only a buffalo robe. The American horses all were poor horses, even those traded for with the Pawnees, and Chief Pike, in his clothes, weighed twice as much, on the saddle, as Scar Head.
The yellow pony over-hauled the Chief Pike horse—crept up, from tail to stirrup, from stirrup to neck, from neck to nose. Scar Head, his moccasined feet thrust into thong loops, clung close. Chief Pike glanced aside at him, with blue eyes glowing, and smiled.
"Good meat," he said, in French. "We two hunt."
"Kill," answered Scar Head.
"Can you kill?"
"Yes."
"What with?"
"This." And Scar Head shook his strung bow.
Chief Pike laughed.
"They are large; you are small. With a gun—yes. With a bow—I think not."
"You will see," Scar Head promised. His heart
