But with all his boasted knowledge of his red brothers, what Bill did
not know was what Injun was thinking of, and that was something
unconnected with his white brothers, or their justice or injustice to
his kind. It was something induced by the stillness of the night,
following the storm. Thoughts of another night, when Injun was not in a
long, narrow bunk-house room, surrounded by booted cowboy friends, but
in a tepee, dimly lighted by a central fire, around which squatted his
serious-faced, copper-hued kinsmen, smoking their long pipes, and
telling of their deeds and mishaps.

And when his mind was fixed on a subject, Injun--like other Indians--was
not to be deflected by the thoughts of others. Bill might talk and talk
of justice and injustice, or about cows or cartridges; Injun's mind
would stay put, and when he spoke, if it was two hours afterwards, it
would be of that night in the tepee.

But it was not that long before the silence that had fallen on the men
was broken. Bill was trying to think of another line of argument that
would induce Injun to speak at length. Whitey, who knew Injun better
than any one else, was looking at him, and realizing that he had
something on his mind. "Why don't you tell us a story, Injun?" Whitey
asked.

There was another long pause in the bunk house, and nothing could be
heard save the ticking of the alarm clock that was Wong's special
property, on which he relied to give him his three a.m. call to
get the punchers' breakfast ready by sunup. And then Injun spoke, he who
rarely talked, save in monosyllables.