“Bravery in youth is a good thing,” the Indian said. He wasn’t smiling. “It is not good to be stupid, little white-eyed wolf. It is stupid to insult the man who holds your gun. It is stupid to insult your elders. If you do it again, I will kill you.”

The Indian let the rifle down easily and spun away. Francis watched him go, kneeling there in the dirt. He had never seen such a pure, cold look in a man’s eyes, and he knew that he would have to be very careful whenever the one-braided warrior was around.

———— Chapter Three ————

THREE WEEKS AFTER he came to the Pawnee camp, Francis learned that the brave who had threatened to kill him, and had purchased the rifle for two good horses from the old man who had led the party, was named Braid. Braid was a war leader. He was not a chief, but any time there was a need for a raid, Braid was the man who led the war party. In camp he was just another warrior, except that he was so mean that many people feared him. He had the scalps of many “victories” braided around the doorway to his lodge. He did not dress in finery, the way many warriors did, because he didn’t need to impress anybody. His scalps did that for him.

Francis hated Braid more than anything on earth. He watched him lead out a big party of more than forty warriors. They were gone all that day and through the night until the next morning.

When they returned it was obvious that they had been on a big raid. Four of the braves were dead, draped across their horses. More were wounded. But even while the women of the dead men sent up their wailing and covered their faces with ashes, the rest of the tribe prepared for dancing and celebration.

One of the braves, Francis saw, had a scalp with blond hair. The party must have made a raid against a group of white people, and the only white people in the area were in his wagon train. It sickened him to realize that Braid had probably used his rifle to shoot at them.

Braid sought out Francis immediately upon the return of the raiding party.

“They will not be coming for you,” the wiry Indian said smirking. “Not now, not ever. I have given them reason to fear the Pawnees. They will not risk fighting us for one stupid little white-eyes.”

Francis knew he was telling the truth. They would not be coming for him. Not because they feared these Indians, but because they would think he was dead. The train would lick its wounds and head on for Oregon without him. He would have to find a way to escape on his own.

But Braid hadn’t finished yet. The warrior dug into his buckskins, pulled out something, and threw it down in front of Francis.