Now this was scarcely the main point at issue, so Will contented himself
with replying, quietly but firmly:

"You cannot take my horse."

The Indian condescended to temporize. "Paleface horse no good," said he.

"Good enough for me," replied Will, smiling despite the gravity of the
situation. The Indian shone rather as a liar than a judge of horseflesh.
"Good enough for me; so you can take your old rack of bones and go."

Much to Will's surprise, the red man dropped the rein, flung himself
upon his own pony, and made off. And down fell "Lo the poor Indian" from
the exalted niche that he had filled in Will's esteem, for while it was
bad in a copper hero to steal horses, it was worse to flee from a boy
not yet in his teens. But a few moments later Lo went back to his lofty
pedestal, for Will heard the guide's voice, and realized that it was the
sight of a man, and not the threats of a boy, that had sent the Indian
about his business--if he had any.

The guide had returned to escort Will to the spot which father, after
a search of nearly a week, had discovered, and where he had decided
to locate our home. It was in Salt Creek Valley, a fertile blue-grass
region, sheltered by an amphitheater range of hills. The old Salt Lake
trail traversed this valley. There were at this time two great highways
of Western travel, the Santa Fe and the Salt Lake trails; later the
Oregon trail came into prominence. Of these the oldest and most historic
was the Santa Fe trail, the route followed by explorers three hundred
years ago. It had been used by Indian tribes from time, to white men,