“We did not expect you, so we have not many gifts to offer in return,” Three Hydrogen Bombs was explaining. “However, there is this one small thing. For you.”
Jerry gasped as he took it. It was a pistol, a real, brand-new pistol! And a small box of cartridges. Made in one of the Sioux slave workshops of the Middle West that he had heard about. But to hold it in his hand, and to know that it belonged to him!
It was a Crazy Horse forty-five, and, according to all reports, far superior to the Apache weapon that had so long dominated the West, the Geronimo thirty-two. This was a weapon a General of the Armies, a President of the United States, might never hope to own—and it was his!
“I don’t know how—Really, I—I—”
“That’s all right,” the chief told him genially. “Really it is. My son would not approve of giving firearms to palefaces, but I feel that palefaces are like other people—it’s the individual that counts. You look like a responsible man for a paleface; I’m sure you’ll use the pistol wisely. Now your message.”
Jerry collected his faculties and opened the pouch that hung from his neck. Reverently, he extracted the precious document and presented it to the chief.
Three Hydrogen Bombs read it quickly and passed it to his warriors. The last one to get it, Bright Book Jacket, wadded it up into a ball and tossed it back at the white man.
“Bad penmanship,” he said.