Francis stood on one side of a circle of braves. At his side, silent as usual, was Mr. Grimes. Across from him, and just inside the circle, was the Indian boy—a good thirty feet away.

He was about four inches taller than Francis, and he weighed about ten pounds more than Francis’s one hundred and thirty-five pounds. And he hadn’t spent the whole day riding on the sorrel.

“This is going to be murder,” Francis whispered to Mr. Grimes. “Pure murder.”

“I’m glad to see your confidence returning, Mr. Tucket. Just a few minutes ago you were ready to give up. Now you’re talking about killing him.”

“I meant it the other way.”

“Oh.”

Francis looked across the circle. A large fire had been built to one side, and in the light he could see two men smearing something on the other boy.

“What are they doing to him?” Francis asked.

“Greasing him,” Mr. Grimes answered. “And it’s about time you took your shirt off.”

“You mean I’ve got to do that?”

“No, you don’t, Mr. Tucket. But the grease is going to make it harder to hold him than a wet catfish. It seems sensible to me that you’d sort of feel like doing the same thing.”

Francis took off his shirt slowly, and Mr. Grimes covered him from the waist up with cold buffalo grease.

“It stinks,” Francis complained.

“Don’t say that too loud.” Mr. Grimes chuckled. “They think it smells nice—like perfume.”

More wood was thrown on the fire. Into the center of the circle stepped Standing Bear. He looked first at the Indian boy and seemed to snort something in Sioux. The Indian boy smiled and nodded. Standing Bear turned to Francis and snorted the same thing.

“Nod and grin,” Mr. Grimes told him. “He’s asking if you’re ready.”

Francis nodded and smiled, at least halfheartedly. He didn’t really feel ready.

Standing Bear snorted some more, then spoke for a full five minutes.

“He’s spouting the rules,” Mr. Grimes said. “No biting, no hitting with the closed hand, no hitting with elbows or knees, humph, I didn’t know that.”

“Know what?”

“They allow kicking, but not with the toes. You have to curve your toes under and kick with the top of your foot. I guess you’d better take your boots off, Mr. Tucket. It wouldn’t be fair to kick him with boots on.”

Francis sighed resignedly and stooped to remove his boots. You might know they’d allow kicking, he thought. In truth, his boots were in tatters, but he felt odd barefoot.