Ted turned Bingo over to one of the boys to care for, and crept forward stealthily toward the hill behind which he had seen a thin thread of blue smoke rising in the still air.

No one but an Indian or a trained scout would build so small a fire. A tenderfoot would have made one that roared and sent a vast cloud of smoke toward the sky to attract any enemy that might be in the vicinity.

But an Indian builds his fire in a space not much larger than the hollow of his two hands, and manages to send up smoke that only a trained eye could detect, and at the same time have heat enough with which to warm himself and cook his food, with as little fuel as possible.

As he went forward, Ted was surprised that he came upon no sign of a camp guard.

The Indians evidently thought that the boys would not have the courage to follow them into their own country, and had grown careless.

So much the better. It would give him a chance to learn how they were situated before making an attack.

He crept on his hands and knees to the ridge of the hill, and, removing his hat, peered over the edge.

Below in a small valley he saw about fifty Indians, who, from their dress and their manner of painting their faces, he knew to be of various tribes.

He easily recognized in the band several Blackfeet, six or seven Crows, some Sioux, who had come far north, and to his astonishment a few Southern Indians, such as Caddos, Cheyennes, and Comanches.

This alone was enough to convince him that the Indians were outlaws and renegades, and that they were plunderers and thieves, as well; probably murderers hiding out from the United States troops.

In the circle about the fire he soon discovered the young fellow whose pony he had shot beside the frozen stream.

The young Indian, for he did not appear much older than Ted himself, was holding forth to a number of other Indians.

Probably he was boasting of his pursuit of the white boy, and the unfortunate mishap that brought down his pony and prevented him from bringing a white captive into camp.

Not far away from this group Ted observed a man dressed in Indian garb, who yet did not act like the other Indians. An Indian has a peculiar, slouching walk, while this man strode about with the smarter, quicker, springier tread of a white man.

Presently the supposed Indian drew from his belt a pouch of tobacco and some cigarette papers, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.

Northern Indians do not roll cigarettes; they smoke pipes. It is only the Indians of the Southwest who take their solace from tobacco through the little homemade paper tubes.

"That's a fellow who has been a cow-puncher," said Ted. "He's a white man disguised as an Indian. Probably one of the Whipple gang. I've got my opinion of a white man who will play Indian, and live with the dirty scoundrels," said Ted to himself, with disgust.

He had seen all that was necessary, and had laid his plan of attack in his mind.

Creeping down the hill, he threw his hand in the air as a signal for the boys to come to him, also signaling for silence.

In a few minutes they were by his side, and, while one of the fellows held Bingo safely, Ted sprang into the saddle.

"Now, fellows, we're going to ride around the end of this hill and plump into the Indian camp. The snow will deaden the hoofbeats of the ponies, but keep as still as possible. We'll surprise them, and probably be able to settle the whole thing without firing a shot. But don't bet on it, and keep your hands on your guns, but don't fire until they make the first crack, then rush them and drive them into the hills, and bring down all you can."

With this advice they rode forward by twos, Ted and Ben in the lead.

It did not take long to round the hill, and then, as suddenly as if they had opened a door and stepped into a room, they were in the midst of the Indians.

No such surprising and sudden attack was ever made. The Indians stood as if they were carved of wood as the boys rode up to them, staring open-mouthed.

Only one of them made a break—the young Indian whom Ted had dismounted.

For several moments not a word was said.

Ted saw instantly that the broncho boys had all the best of it, and that the Indians had been taken completely by surprise, for not one of them was armed. Their rifles and guns were either still on their saddles, and the ponies were standing some distance away, or they were stacked beside a ledge of rock twenty or more feet from the fire, where most of them were congregated.

The young fellow whom Ted had foiled stared for a moment with a look of contempt and dislike.

Suddenly he made a rush to where the guns were standing.

"Stop!" Ted's voice rang out sharply. But the youth continued to run.

"Stop, or I'll kill you!" shouted Ted again.

Then an old Indian cried out something, in the tongue of the Blackfeet, and the young fellow halted suddenly and came walking back with a sickly look on his face.

The old Indian who had stopped the youth now stepped a little ways forward, and, holding up his hands in a peace sign, began to talk.

"You are my brothers," he said, "and Flying Sun, the medicine man, welcomes you to our camp."

Ted held up his hands in a sign of peace also, but said nothing.

"He's a darned old hypocrite," said Ben, in an aside to Ted. "He has murder in those little red eyes of his, if ever a man had."

"I'm on to him," said Ted. "Keep your eyes on that bunch, and give it to them if they start anything treacherous."

"My white brothers come with peace for their red brothers. Join us at the fire. Warm yourselves; eat of our meat."

"We are willing to be brothers," said Ted. "But one brother does not steal the ponies from the corral of the other."

"That was the work of the young men, and they are now sorry for it," said the medicine man.

Ted looked at the young fellow whom he had unhorsed, and saw that his face was distended in a sarcastic smile.

"The young brave yonder is the one who led the raid on my corral. He does not look sorry," said Ted, pointing to the offender.

Flying Sun threw a glance in the direction of the young man, and said a few words sharply in the Blackfeet tongue.

"Crazy Cow is young and the son of a chief. His blood is hot within him, and he does not know what he does," said Flying Sun.

Crazy Cow's face at once assumed a look of sadness.

"I have not come for war," said Ted gravely, "but I want to warn you and your tribe that I will not stand for any raids on our ranch. You will find that we are good fighters, and that we can kill just as well as the soldiers. The ranch is ours, and the cattle and horses are ours, and do not belong to the young men of your tribe. They must leave us alone, or we will be compelled to deal out justice to them in our own way, which is a hard one."

"Very well, my brother," said the wily old chief. "We desire to live in peace with our white brothers. Your cattle and horses shall be sacred to our young men."

"I mean this," said Ted, looking at the old man severely. "Keep your young men away from our ranch, or they will be killed."

At this Crazy Cow drew himself up to his full height, and looked at Ted with scorn.

"Two can make killing," he said, in perfectly plain English.

"Perhaps they can," said Ted quickly. "But I want to say to you particularly, that if you are ever seen within the lines of the Long Tom Ranch again you will be sorry that you ever were born. I have said enough. Get on your horses and go. You are now on the ranch. Get beyond it."

The young Indian gave a short, harsh laugh, and strode toward a pony, decorated after the fashion of war ponies with feathers and bits of red flannel woven into his mane and tail.

The other Indians were not slow to follow his example, and soon they were all mounted.

"Now look out for treachery," said Ted in an aside to the boys.

"Keep your eyes peeled, fellows," said Ben, passing the word along back.

"Ride up in open order so that we can surround that bunch if they get gay," said Ted, in a low voice, and the boys rode out and scattered themselves in a long line.

The Indians were bunched pretty well together.

It was a critical moment.

The slightest suspicious move on the part of the boys might have alarmed the Indians and started a fight.

While the boys kept their hands on their weapons not one was drawn.

The Indians rode off to a distance of a few hundred feet, then halted. All had their rifles or guns in their hands, but not in a hostile way.

They were well aware that the white boys were much better armed than they, and were not in a temper to stand any foolishness.

It seemed as if the Indians had stopped to say good-by before riding away into the mountains.

But when they stopped, Crazy Cow rode out from them a short distance and stopped.

"I am Crazy Cow," he said in a boastful way.

This was in the manner of a personal challenge, as if he had said: "Who the deuce are you? Knock the chip off my shoulder if you dare."

Ted looked at him for a moment, for Crazy Cow was staring at him with an impertinent look in his face.

"I don't care who you are," said Ted, who was disgusted with the fellow's airs. "If you were the chief himself, I would tell you to keep away from my cows and ponies. What is the son of a chief? Nothing!"

The tone in which Ted said this was such that the young Indian flushed a deeper red, and grasped his rifle harder.

"I am an educated Indian," said Crazy Cow, "and as good as any white man. This is my country, and I shall go wherever I please."

"Go where you will, except on my ranch. Keep off that."

The Indian shrugged his shoulders.

"I go where I please. You, whoever you are, have no right to prevent me from going anywhere. Who are you to talk to me like that?"

"My name is Ted Strong. I am a deputy United States marshal. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes. I spit on them."

"Well, here's one you won't spit on. That's a cinch. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a man who got his education free from the United States, to talk that way."

"Bah! I hate the United States which robbed my people of their lands, and then made treaties only to break them. Since they have driven me into the mountains they owe me a living, and I'm going to collect it."

"Very well, only be careful how you do it. I have said enough."

"Ted Strong talks big and much, but does nothing. He is a coward who is afraid of the Indian."

"I am not afraid of you. I think I have shown it."

"Yes, but you ran when I surprised you by the stream."

"My pony ran, and to keep from losing him I clung to him."

"It was a good thing for you that he did run. If he hadn't, you would never have gone home again, and the buzzards and vultures, assisted by the prairie wolves, would have you by now."

"Big talk means nothing. You are not a fighter, you are a squaw. You are a fool and a boaster."

"No, I am a chief, and a warrior. I have seen the blood of the white man flow, and I drank it. I am brave."

"You're full of hot air. Run along now; I'm disgusted with you."

"Hah! White squaw afraid to fight. Go back to your camp, and cook the meals and wash the clothes in the tub."

Crazy Cow made motions, of scrubbing at a tub.

At this the other Indians burst into laughter.

"You are but an idle boaster, Crazy Cow. You make much noise like the wind in the trees. That is all it amounts to. You do not make me feel bad by what you say."

Crazy Cow, seeing that he could not get Ted angry with his banter, tried a new tack.

"Hah, little bay pony," he cried, addressing Bingo. "Are you a squaw pony?"

He paused in a listening attitude as if he was paying close attention to what the pony was saying.

"Yes, you are ashamed to be ridden by a squaw who does not fight, but only talks. Come over here, squaw pony, and be ridden by a man."

Again his speech was greeted by the laughter of the Indians, to whom it was interpreted by the disguised white man.

"So you think I will not fight, eh? You think I am a squaw, do you?" said Ted quietly.

The Indian only laughed.

"I will show you who is the squaw. I will thrash you with my quirt until you cry out with pain. You may keep your gun. I am not afraid of it."

"Now you begin to talk a little like a man. But you won't fight. Little pony, you are ridden by a squaw. Why don't you throw him off and come to me, who is a fighter?"

"Fellows, stand fast," said Ted to the boys. "I'm going to give that young buck such a licking as he never thought possible. If they don't play fair, shoot."

Ted threw his rifle to Ben, so that he would not be burdened by it, and rode toward the Indian, who also threw his weapon to one of his followers. In his right hand he carried a long, braided Indian whip of thongs. It was a cruel weapon, for the Indian is cruel to everything in his power, from his squaw to his dog.

This he grasped firmly in his right hand, and awaited Ted's coming with a satirical smile on his face.

Ted had been coming on quietly, but when he was a few feet from Crazy Cow he suddenly gave Bingo the spur, and the astonished horse reached the Indian's side in two jumps.

Without a moment's hesitation Ted reached forward and grasped the Indian by a collar of leather which he wore laced around his throat, somewhat after the fashion of the white linen chokers worn by young white men.

Furiously the young Indian lashed out with his quirt, which struck Ted across the shoulders, and made him wince with the burning sharpness of it.

But Ted was back at him like a flash, and his quirt sang through the air and slapped upon the buckskin shirt worn by the Indian.

Crazy Cow, whom the lash had not hurt in the least, only laughed.

Ted saw that he might go on thrashing the Indian all day upon his shirt, and that it would have no more effect than if he whipped a covering of iron.

The other Indians also saw the humor of the situation, and joined in the laughter.

Meantime, the Indian was plying his quirt with all his force, and every time the lash struck Ted across the shoulders or neck it left a blue welt.

Whipping fights are common among the Indian lads, and are merely tests of courage, and the power to endure pain without crying out. The Indian boy who cries out unexpectedly at some particularly stinging blow is called a squaw, and sent into Coventry by the others for varying lengths of time, during which none of them will speak to him.

Crazy Cow had often indulged in the whipping sport, and knew how to wield the quirt most effectively.

So the battle of the quirts went on, the blows falling as fast as their arms could fly, but Ted plainly was getting the worst of it on account of the protection which the buckskin shirt gave the Indian.

Ted saw that this soon must change or he would be ignominiously beaten. He had not shown that he suffered any pain from the blows he received, although the Indians watched his face closely for any sign that he was weakening.

At last Ted thought that he had discovered a vulnerable spot.

With a sudden wrench of his strong wrist upon the leather collar which he grasped, he whipped Crazy Cow flat across his saddle and held him there.

Then with all his strength he brought his quirt across the seat of Crazy Cow's blue flannel trousers, which were drawn tight, and upon the tender part of the back of his legs.

The Indian struggled furiously, but could not release himself, and all the while the cruel blows were raining upon him.

A huge burst of laughter rose from the broncho boys, but the Indians could not see the joke, and with angry exclamations started forward to rescue their young chief.

But at this sign of hostility Ben Tremont let out a roar, and every broncho boy threw his rifle to his shoulder, and the Indians shrank back in silence.

Ted thrashed the Indian until his yells of agony and his struggles ceased, then threw him aside.

"Go back to your people and tell them that you are no longer fit to be chief. That you have been whipped with a quirt by a white boy until you cried. It is you who are the squaw," said Ted, riding back to his party.