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Yan, following up Blackhawk's suggestion, brought in the new game of "White-man's Woodcraft." "Can you," asked he, "tell a Dog's height by its track?" "No; nor you nor any one else," was the somewhat scornful reply. "Oh, yes, I can. Take the length in inches of his forefoot track, multiply it by 8, and that gives his height at the shoulder. You try it and you'll see.
Fascinated, the others watched as it hung a moment in the air and dropped directly over Blackhawk's head. "Pretty cast!" praised the ranchman. "Now ride along. Don't pull up too soon." But his words were too late. The pony which his elder son rode was perfectly trained to rope steers.
Not having any adventures that seemed important, except, perhaps, Blackhawk's defeat of Woodpecker and Little Beaver, subjects that did not interest the artist, the outside decorations were the totem of the clan and its members. White-Man's Woodcraft Blackhawk was the introducer of a new game which he called "judging."
Despite his greater weight, the ranchman had been close up with the boys and had noted Blackhawk's action. Realizing that it would be hopeless to try to overtake the runaway, and fearing that some injury might befall Tom, Mr. Wilder shouted: "Rope the black, Bill! He's got the bit!" Loosening his lariat as quickly as possible, the elder of the Wilder boys began to whirl it round his head.
There isn't a scratch on Blackhawk, and if Tom's " "There's no scratch on me either," returned the boy. "But what about the race, do I win or not?" "Considering you flew from Blackhawk's back almost to the tree, I reckon you do," declared Mr. Wilder. And looking up, Tom noticed that he was, indeed, standing under the branches of the tree that marked the goal.
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