My mamma's brother then he say come." As the clipped sentences fell in soft gutturals from Injun's lips his face remained expressionless, except for his eyes, which gazed back into the dim, smoke-laden tepee and into the face of his father, a great story-teller of a race of great story-tellers; a survivor of the age-old days when the deeds and legends of all men were made history by the voice alone.

And the men, their wager forgotten, and Whitey, too, leaned forward and saw the tepee and saw Injun's uncle talking to the scout, whom he trusted, and who trusted the White Chief.
In what followed, Injun left some of the details to the imagination of his hearers, or perhaps thought that they knew of them.

Of how, before the great war dance, the chiefs of the tribe assembled in conclave in their council tent.

And before these chiefs, who sat as a sort of jury, appeared the young men of the tribe.

And each young Indian told of his brave deeds, performed since the last war dance, and according to these deeds the chiefs decided whether the young man was worthy to become a chief.
He needed no witnesses; his word was sufficient--for the Indian spoke only the truth.