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choice for leader.
    “Mah-ish-ta-shee-da,” he said in a tone laced with contempt—the Cheyenne word for white men. Fargo knew enough of their language to know it meant “yellow eyes”—the first white men the Cheyenne had ever seen were fur trappers suffering from severe jaundice.
    Fargo thumped his own chest with his fist, a symbol of defiance—a reaction more likely to engender respect among these proud and defiant warriors.
    “Wasichu,” he said proudly, the Lakota Sioux word for white men and a language the Cheyenne knew well for the Sioux were their battle cousins.
    Fargo noticed that all six braves avoided making direct eye contact with the white men, fearing they might steal their souls. He made a quick survey of the weapons now trained on him and Buckshot. One Cheyenne had a badly used .33 caliber breechloader, a standard trade rifle. Its cracked stock had been wrapped tightly with buckskin. Another held a cap-and-ball Colt’s Dragoon pistol, a “knockdown gun” whose huge, conical slug often killed even with a hit to the arm or leg.
    The other four brandished Osage-wood bows, arrows nocked, and light but deadly spears tipped with flaked-flint points.
    “Why are you here, hair face?” the leader demanded in the Lakota tongue.
    Fargo had long ago learned the universal sign language used by Plains Indians as a lingua franca between tribes. He replied using signs for Lakota or Cheyenne words he didn’t know.
    “The paleface believes the land belongs to him. Like the red man, I believe we all belong to the land. I belong to this place. It has always been my home.”
    The brave seemed momentarily impressed by this unexpected answer. But he had to save face with the others, so he shook his head adamantly. “From Great Waters to place where sun rises, white man’s home. From Great Waters to place where sun sets, red man’s home.”
    Fargo hooked a thumb toward Buckshot. “Look at him. He mounts his horse from the Indian side. You can see he is no hair face. He is Choctaw and his tribe is from east of Great Waters.”
    “You speak in a wolf bark! Where are these tribes now? Planting corn like women in the place where your white leader Sharp Knife sent them. No horses, no weapons. They are prisoners. And you plan to send us there and make women of our men.”
    The brave with the Colt’s Dragoon thumbed his hammer from half to full cock. “I will kill the beef-eaters now!”
    “Fargo,” Buckshot said quietly but urgently, “our tits are in the wringer, boy. I’m swingin’ Patsy up—you best jerk your short iron.”
    Before Fargo could reply, the leader raised his hand to stop the hothead. Then he addressed himself to Fargo.
    “It is true that you look different than the Mah-ish-ta-shee-da who travel in the great bone shakers. You and your friend have not cut your stallions and broken their spirit. You wear buckskins. You know a little of our tongue. Your faces are not those of women who show their feelings. Perhaps you do belong to this place, and the Cheyenne Way does not permit us to kill you.”
    The immediate danger of violent action had passed for the moment, but Fargo knew they had avoided a stampede only to be caught in a flood. When Plains warriors spared a white man’s life, they exacted tribute for crossing Indian ranges safely. Despite their obvious admiration for the Ovaroand Buckshot’s rare grulla, the warriors knew it was beyond the pale to demand a man’s horse in this country.
    But the way they had been covetously admiring Fargo’s Henry and Buckshot’s double-ten, it was clear what was coming.
    “You may go in peace,” the brave continued, “but you will leave your thunder sticks with us. And that fine knife in your…”
    He did not know the word for boot so he pointed at the Arkansas toothpick in Fargo’s boot sheath. Fargo shook his head.
    “Would you surrender your best weapons?” the Trailsman demanded. “We will give you some sugar and coffee. These are fine