"Let me see the gun," demanded the boy. A gun was necessary for the
Bat's future progression.

A subordinate was directed to show a gun to him, which he did by taking
him one side and pulling one from a cart. It was a long, yellow-stocked
smoothbore, with a flintlock. It had many brass tacks driven into the
stock, and was bright in its cheap newness. As the Bat took it in his
hand he felt a nervous thrill, such as he had not experienced since the
night he had pulled the dripping hair from the Absaroke. He felt it all
over, smoothing it with his hand; he cocked and snapped it; and the
little brown bat on his scalp-lock fairly yelled: "Get your ponies, get
your ponies--you must have the gun."

Returning the gun, the Bat ran out, and after a time came back with his
three ponies, which he drove up to the white man's pen, saying in
Chis-chis-chash: "Here are my ponies. Give me the gun."

The white chief glanced at the boy as he sat there on a sturdy little
clip-maned war-pony--the one he had stolen from the Absaroke. He spoke,
and the interpreter continued: The trader says he will take the pony you
are riding as one of the three."

"Tell him that I say I would not give this pony for all the goods I see.
Here are my three ponies; now let him give me the gun before he makes
himself a liar," and the boy warrior wore himself into a frenzy of
excitement as he yelled: "Tell him if he does not give me the gun he
will feel this war-pony in the dark, when he travels; tell him he will
not see this war-pony, but he will feel him when he counts his ponies at
daylight. He is a liar."