He was wrapped in a dirty
blanket, but enough of him could be seen to show that he was a Redman.
"Is that a _real_ Indian, Uncle Frank?" asked Teddy in great
excitement.
"What? Him? Oh, yes, he's a real Indian all right. There's a lot of
'em come down to the station to sell baskets and beadwork to the
people who go through on the trains."
"Is he a _tame_ Indian?" the little boy next wanted to know.
"Oh, he's 'tame' all right. Hi there, Running Horse!" called Uncle
Frank to the copper-faced man in the blanket, "sell many baskets to-day?"
"Um few. No good business," answered the Indian in a sort of grunt.
"Oh, do you know him?" asked Ted in surprise.
"Oh, yes. Running Horse often comes to the ranch when he's hungry.
There's a reservation of the Indians not far from our place. They
won't hurt you, Jan; don't be afraid," said Uncle Frank, as he saw
that the little girl kept close to Teddy.
"Was he wild once?" she asked timidly.
"Why, yes; I guess you might have called him a wild Indian once,"
her uncle admitted. "He's pretty old and I shouldn't wonder but what
he had been on the warpath against the white settlers."
"Oh!" exclaimed Janet. "Maybe he'll get wild again!"
"Oh, no he won't!" laughed Uncle Frank. "He's only too glad now to
live on the reservation and sell the baskets the squaws make. The
Indian men don't like to work."
Running Horse, which was the queer name the Indian had chosen for
himself, or which had been given him, walked along, wrapped in his
blanket, though the day was a warm one.
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