Thoughts of another night, when Injun was not in a long, narrow bunk-house room, surrounded by booted cowboy friends, but in a tepee, dimly lighted by a central fire, around which squatted his serious-faced, copper-hued kinsmen, smoking their long pipes, and telling of their deeds and mishaps.
And when his mind was fixed on a subject, Injun--like other Indians--was not to be deflected by the thoughts of others.

Bill might talk and talk of justice and injustice, or about cows or cartridges; Injun's mind would stay put, and when he spoke, if it was two hours afterwards, it would be of that night in the tepee.
But it was not that long before the silence that had fallen on the men was broken.

Bill was trying to think of another line of argument that would induce Injun to speak at length.

Whitey, who knew Injun better than any one else, was looking at him, and realizing that he had something on his mind.

"Why don't you tell us a story, Injun ?" Whitey asked.
There was another long pause in the bunk house, and nothing could be heard save the ticking of the alarm clock that was Wong's special property, on which he relied to give him his three a.m.call to get the punchers' breakfast ready by sunup.