In his mind Whitey was connecting the old puncher's story with the one Injun had told in the bunk house at the Bar O, and with what Bill Jordan had said afterwards; that Injun had revealed the start or source of the greatest Indian fight the country ever knew.
It had been a hard day, and one by one the men dropped off to sleep, until only Whitey and the old puncher were left, he rolling an occasional cigarette, and living in that past which the events of the night had brought back to him.

Whitey realized this, and had to admit that it was a pretty exciting place in which to live.

And he wondered if the old puncher would like to have another page in his book of life; a sort of explanatory page, like the key in an arithmetic.
It was almost dark in the tent.

Only one lighted lantern hung from a pole.

And in low tones, so as not to disturb the sleepers, Whitey told the old man the story of Injun's mamma's brother and his friend the scout; and of the White Chief, and the dance, and the arrest and the escape; and of Injun's father's resolve that "we fight heap!" The old puncher didn't know who these Indians were of whom Whitey was talking, but he listened politely at first and interestedly at last.