They were silent for a while, thinking. Francis was imagining the muscled figure of Braid nestled just over his rifle’s sights.

“Braid’s stupid,” Spot continued after a minute or two. “He’s talking about making a clean sweep, or so I hear, and driving all whites from Pawnee territory.”

“That’s a bit strong,” Mr. Grimes said. “He might hit a train or two, but I don’t think he’ll bother us—I mean you and me. It would only hurt him to put us under—he’d get no more trade.”

“All the same,” Spot said, “if I were you, and I knew Braid was around somewhere, I’d make sure I had my shoulder blades covered by a tree.”

Mr. Grimes shrugged. “I do that anyway—just natural. But I don’t like this other thing much. If there’s anything worse than one mad Pawnee, it’s a hundred mad Pawnees. Braid’s stirring up a war, maybe. Not so good …” His voice trailed off.

And that finished any talk for another thirty minutes or so, while they ate and drank still more. Francis had thought he was full, but he was fast changing his eating patterns. He was learning that when you can eat, you eat. It might be a couple of days before you got a chance to eat again.

“Just one question,” Mr. Grimes said around a mouthful of biscuit. “What’s the story on the Crows? I spent a week coming across their stomping grounds and didn’t see a one. Usually I get shot at at least once.”

“I don’t know,” Spot answered. “But there’s been word they found a big herd of buffalo and spent the summer living in back of the herd. I also heard they’ve broken up a bit—too many war chiefs or something—and that there’s a bunch of small bands out, just taking what they can get when they can get it. But you know the Crows: if you see ’em, more’n likely you’re going to have to fight ’em.” Spot leaned back and sighed. “Enough of that—I think it’s time for a game. Or are you scared? I figured you’d probably given up—seeing how bad I whipped you last time.”

“Whipped me?” snorted Mr. Grimes. “Did you hear that, Mr. Tucket? This old spot-head thinks he whipped me. Waugh! Drag out the plank and we’ll see who whips who in this pond.”

“Stakes?” Spot asked, laughing.

“One prime pelt—which I haven’t got—against three pints of sugar—which you haven’t got. Suit you?”

“Why not? I can always use another pelt.”

“Ho—you sure are the one for talk. Where’s that plank?”