At once he relaxed his tense attitude and, drawing himself up, he demanded in a voice of indignant scorn: "Why you touch me?
Me Big Chief! You little dog!" As he stood, erect, tall, scornful, commanding, with his head thrown back and his arm outstretched, his eyes glittering and his face eloquent of haughty pride, he seemed the very incarnation of the wild unconquered spirit of that once proud race he represented.

For a moment or two a deep silence held the group of Indians, and even the white men were impressed.

Then the Inspector spoke.
"Trotting Wolf," he said, "I want this man.

He is a horse-thief.

I know him.