Not until we were lined out along the road did I realize the size of our train. Three hundred white-topped wagons stretched far out across the prairie. Very pretty they looked in the sunshine following the thread of road through the green grass. Riding back along the length of the train was a dark-faced, trim-looking man on a beautiful bay horse. He was looking closely at the wagons. As he passed he lifted his hat and very pleasantly said, "Good Morning."

Father answered him, then said to us, "That is Mr. George,* the scout for the daily train." (* Mother was never quite sure that she remembered this name correctly.)

"What does he do?" I asked.

"Oh, he will choose our camp grounds and find water, and decide what roads to follow. He is our guide and plainsman. We are like a little army and he and Captain Daily are our officers. A fine sort they seem, too."

"If we are an army, some of us won't be very good soldiers, I'm afraid," Florence said. "Charlie here couldn't do much with a gun." We all laughed at the idea of a baby fighting Indians.

"We don't need to fear Indians from present indications," Father said. "it has been a long time since they were troublesome. These fellows wandering around might steal something, but we don't need to fear them."

While we were eating our lunch that day, the Indian we had seen watching Major rode into camp again and sat on his pony looking at the dog. When Father had finished eating, he dismounted, came up to him and asked, "His nose hurt? Knife? Cut?" He pointed to Major's nose and to his own.

Father laughed. "Oh, no," he said. "He's a double-nosed pointer. His nose isn't split. Their noses are always like that."

What he good for?"

"He's a good watchdog. Can't you see that you'd better keep away from him?" Major bristled and growled every time the Indian moved toward him.

"You sell him? Give pony." He pointed to his horse.

"No," Father said, "he's too valuable to eat."

"No eat!" exclaimed the Indian. "No eat! No-o-o! No-o-o-o! Keep dog. No eat him. Keep him. You sell him? Give pony."

"No," Father said, "I don't need a pony and I do need the dog."

"He hunt?" asked the Indian.

"Yes, he's a good bird dog, but I won't sell him."

"Give two ponies."

"No, no I need the dog and I don't need the ponies. He doesn't like you, anyway." Father turned away and called Derby and Prince. They left the grass they were cropping and came to be hitched to the wagon. The Indian stood about for a moment longer, then sprang onto his pony and rode away.

"Major wouldn't be of much use to him," Winfield said as he put away the lunch box. "He'd like too well to bite him."

"I wish he would bite him. I'm afraid he will steal him." Robert gave him some scraps from the lunch and really seemed afraid we would lose him.

"You don't need to worry. No one would want him long with the disposition he shows when he does not like people."

"Yes," Robert argued, "but they do steal, and they might get him."

"Major can take care of himself. We always have him with us anyway." The wagons were ready, so we started on. The next day at noon the Indian was back, this time with two ponies to trade for the dog. When Father refused, he rode off looking very solemn. Robert was more anxious than ever, though Father assured him that Major was safe. That night he was at our camp with four ponies, little, rangy, spotted beasts that we could have no use for. Again, Father refused and the Pawnee rode off shaking his head.

As he disappeared among the wagons I heard shouts of "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa, there!" accompanied by the sounds of a fighting horse. Chris Halligan, braced backward, his feet dragging stiffly on the ground in front, was trying desperately to hold a big stallion, one of Father's horses which had charged the Indian. The wide-spread mouth and big wicked teeth were within a foot of the Indian's head as the horse tried viciously to reach him. In spite of Chris's efforts, it looked as if another Indian would be scalped. Someone sprang to help hold the horse, and how that Indian ran!

When the laughter had subsided, Father said, "That ought to keep him away. He doesn't seem popular with our animals. I don't see what he wants of the dog anyway. Major certainly doesn't like him any better than the horse does. Whenever an Indian comes around, boys," he continued, "Warn him about that horse. He makes too much trouble." And so they men did. Whenever a red man appeared, he was told to look out for the horse, a very necessary warning for both the Indian and for us. The very smell of an Indian drove the horse frantic.

The next day, however, the Pawnee was back, though this time he kept a wary eye out for trouble. He offered five horses, then six, seven, ten. Finally Father said, "No, it doesn't matter how many horses you offer, or what you offer. I won't sell the dog. You havent' anything I need and I do need the dog. I won't sell him at all." The Indian left then, his face very sullen. Robert watched him anxiously. "I hope he will stay away, now," he said. "I don't like his hanging around." We never saw him again.

A few mornings later, however, when Robert called Major, he did not come. We called and whistled in vain and looked for him for days. Many tears were shed for our pet, tears not only for our loss, but for Major's troubles also. He hated Indians so thoroughly that some very unfair advantage must have been taken of him, otherwise he could not have been stolen. Our loss was not soon forgotten, though the strangeness of our surroundings kept us busy with unexpected experiences.