Читать книгу Wild Horse Mesa - Zane Grey - Страница 4

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CHANE abruptly left the camp fire circle, not averse to the possibility of argument and action that might leave him less to contend with. Loud angry voices attested to a quarrel among the men. He made significant note of the fact that he did not distinguish McPherson’s voice.

“Cool sort of chap,” soliloquized Chane. “If Manerube has any sense he’ll not rile that man. But I hope he does.”

Chane possessed himself of his rifle, which during his daily rides he had left in camp. For a wild-horse hunter a rifle was a nuisance and a burden on a saddle. But he had reflected that such a long-range weapon might do more than even up the advantage Manerube and his associates had in numbers, for they carried only the short Colt gun common to riders of the range. In the future he would pack the rifle on his saddle, whether it was cumbersome or not.

With this in hand, and his bridle, Chane left camp to hunt for his horses. Glancing back from the edge of the slope, he was pleased to observe that the four unwelcome guests were engaged in a hot argument.

“I’d sure like to know just what and who they are,” muttered Chane. “I’ll bet they’re going to steal my mustangs. Well, that’d be no great loss. But they’ve all taken a shine to Brutus. I don’t like that. They’ll have to take him over my dead body.”

Brutus was Chane’s new horse, an acquisition of this last trip through the Mormon country. Chane had not ridden him and had not yet seen him go through any kind of test. Two years earlier, Chane had lost a beloved horse and since then had been indifferent to all horses except the great and almost mythical Panquitch. The loss had hurt Chane so deeply that he dreaded to find another animal he might love. Brutus, however, had been gradually growing on him, especially since the arrival of the four self-styled horse-wranglers. Horn had tried to beg Brutus of Chane; Slack wanted to borrow him; Manerube offered to buy him; and McPherson jocularly declared that he intended to steal him.

“Funny how men will take to a certain horse,” thought Chane as he swung down the slope. “Now Brutus filled my eye first time I saw him, but I’d never have bought him if he hadn’t been such a bargain. Reckon I was wrong.”

And Chane tried to recall the remarkable eulogy given the horse by the Mormons. Brutus had come from the finest strain of Colorado-bred stock. His sire was a stallion that had been born wild; his dam had come from a long line of blooded horses. He was six years old. All his life he had run over the rockiest, brushiest country in western Colorado. His equal as a cow horse had never been seen there. And as he had not been ridden by cowboys, his fine disposition had not been ruined. He had never been known to fall, or pitch, or balk at anything. He was fast and no rider yet had ever tired him. So much Chane remembered, and he was surprised at himself that he had not taken credence of it long ago. He understood his reluctance, however, for the very thought of Brutus or even Panquitch taking the vacant place in his heart gave him a pang.

Chane left the trail where it crossed Beaver Brook, and followed the watercourse up the canyon, through willow and cedar thickets, under a looming yellow wall of stone. Chane had three pack horses, and two saddle horses besides Brutus; these had been herded by Toddy Nokin up Beaver Canyon. The brush was still wet from the rain yesterday and the water of the brook was not so clear and amber-colored as usual. Bits of brush and dead leaves floated on the swift current. Blue jays screeched from the piñons; canyon swifts twittered and glinted in the sunlight; Indian sheep were bleating somewhere in the distance.

Presently the canyon opened into a narrow park, purple with sage, dotted by red rocks, and bordered by a wandering line of green where grass and willows lined the brook. Here Chane found his horses. He had been riding a white animal called Andy, which, according to the wranglers, was known at St. George as a one-man horse. Chane, more out of vanity to show he could manage Andy than for any other reason, had given him precedence over Brutus. Andy was white, except for a few black markings, lean, rangy, tough, and of nervous disposition. Chane had found him good in every kind of going except sand. Andy did not know sand.

Chane approached the horses with the usual caution of a wrangler, and all of them, except Brutus, moved out of his reach. Brutus gave his superb head a quick uplift and regarded Chane with keen, distrustful eyes.

“Brutus, I reckon we’ve got horse thieves in camp, so I’m going to look you over,” said Chane. He had a habit of talking to horses, perhaps owing to the fact that he was so much alone.

Whereupon he walked round Brutus as if he had never seen him before. He made the discovery that he had never really looked at Brutus. Reluctantly Chane had to confess the horse was magnificent. And he suffered a twinge of conscience that he could ever be so far faithless to the memory of the beloved horse of the past. That confession and remorse changed the status of Brutus.

“Well, you and I must get acquainted,” Chane decided.

Brutus was not exactly a giant of a horse, though he was much higher and heavier than the average. His muscular development made him appear unusual; indeed, a little more muscle would have deformed him. His chest was massive, broad, deep, a wonderful storehouse of energy. Such powerful, perfectly proportioned, and sound legs Chane had seldom seen, and his great hoofs matched them. His body was large, round, smooth, showing no bones. He had a broad arched neck and a fine head, which he held high as he looked directly at Chane. There was an oval white spot on his face, just below the wide space between his eyes. His color was a dark mottled brown, almost black, and his coat glistened in the sunlight.

At the last Chane always judged horses as he judged men—by the look in their eyes. Horses had as much character as men, and similar emotions and instincts. Chane had a theory, not shared by many wranglers, that kindness brought out the best in any horse. If a horse was mean it did not always follow that he had been born so.

Brutus had large dark eyes, soft yet full of spirit, just now questioning and uncertain. They showed his intelligence. Chane made sure that the horse had not been spurred and jerked and jammed around as had most horses six years old. He had not been hurt. The way he threw up his head appealed strongly to Chane. There was pride and fire in his look. It seemed he questioned Chane—what have you to say for yourself?

“Brutus, I had—a horse once,” said Chane, faltering a little, “and I haven’t cared for one since.... But you and I are going to be friends.”

With the words Chane’s old gentle and confident way of handling horses came back to him. He approached Brutus, placing a slow sure strong hand on the glossy neck. Brutus quivered, but did not jerk away. He snorted, and turned his head to look at Chane. It pleased Chane to find that he did not need a rope or halter. Brutus stood to be bridled, not altogether satisfied about it, not liking the rifle Chane held under his arm, but he took the bit easily and began to champ it. Then he followed Chane willingly. He had a long stride and his nose soon came abreast of Chane’s shoulder. Before Chane reached camp he decided that Brutus had missed the attention and company of a rider.

Chane discovered McPherson and his two comrades in camp, but Manerube was not in sight. While Chane saddled the horse McPherson strode up. His face seemed the same rough bronze mask, his eyes told nothing, yet there were traces about his person of recent spent passion.

“Wal, Manerube helped hisself to your grub, packed, an’ rode off,” announced McPherson.

“He’s welcome,” declared Chane, heartily.

“Me an’ him had some hard words, but he wouldn’t throw a gun, so nothin’ come of it.”

“Where’d he head for?” queried Chane.

“He said Bluff, but I reckon thet’s a bluff, all right,” returned the other. “He took the main trail out of Beaver. I climbed the stone over thar an’ watched him. I seen him turn off the trail in the cedars.”

McPherson pointed with sturdy hand across the canyon toward the foot of a cedared ridge. A trail branched off there, leading to the camp of the Piutes.

“I savvy, Bud,” rejoined Chane, laconically. “You’re giving me a hunch.”

“Man, shore as you’re a hoss-wrangler he’ll rustle off with your little Piute squaw.”

Chane’s good humor gave place to irritation. He eyed McPherson with plain disfavor.

“She’s not my squaw,” he said, sharply.

“Wal, I meant no offense. But she belongs to somebody. Toddy Nokin shore. An’ I’m sayin’ thet if Toddy or you hit Manerube’s trail——”

“I’ll beat him to Toddy’s hogan,” interrupted Chane, leaping on Brutus.

“Hey!” yelled McPherson, hastily. “Don’t git the idee because Manerube didn’t draw on me thet he won’t on you. Me an’ you might be different propositions.”

“Much obliged,” Chane called back. “If Manerube beats me to a gun you’re welcome to my grub.”

McPherson yelled another parting sally, which Chane could not distinguish, owing to the sudden pounding of hoofs. Brutus had not needed spur or word; his answer to the touch of bridle was something that thrilled Chane.

“Say, old boy, you’re there!” he called.

But only a few rods away was the edge of a rocky slope, where Chane had to rein Brutus in. It was not necessary to haul on the bridle and hold hard as in the case of Andy and most spirited horses Chane had ridden. Brutus pounded down the rock-strewn trail and splashed across the brook. His hoofs rang hollow on the stone bench where the water rushed. Chane rode at a gallop up the canyon, through the sage flat, and on to a low cedared break in the wall. There was a trail leading over this, down upon the sage upland beyond, where the Indians pastured their horses and sheep. By the time Chane surmounted this ragged rocky eminence he was aware that he bestrode one horse in a million. His heart warmed to Brutus. Apparently he climbed with no more effort than that required on a level. Once on top, he gave a great heave of his bellows-like chest, and that was the only sign of exertion he manifested.

“Look here, Brutus, I reckon I overlooked you, but you needn’t rub it in,” remarked Chane.

It was an easy ride down the long gradual slope. The fragrant breath of the sage came strong on the breeze. Away rolled the heaving purple upland, with its clumps of green cedar, its groups of yellow rocks, its long level lines of canyon rims, red in the morning sun. Herds of mustangs colored the soft gray and purple of the sage flats; a flock of sheep moved like a wide white-and-black patch out on the desert. A sage prairie it seemed, almost endless to the eastward; but in the north interrupted lines and notches betrayed the break-off down into the wilderness world of wind-worn rock.

Toddy Nokin’s hogan, and that of his relatives, stood at the base of the slope, on the edge of the bare upland. These mounds of earth plastered over framework of cedar were no different from the Navajo structures. The one door faced the east. Door as well as hogan invited the sun. Temporary as were these homes of the Piutes, they yet had the appearance of service. Blue smoke curled from the circular holes in the roofs; white and black puppies played with half naked, dusky-skinned children; mustangs with crude Indian saddles and blankets of bright colors stood bridles down; in a round corral, made of cedar branches planted in the ground, a flock of sheep and goats baa-baaed at Chane’s approach, and the shepherd dogs barked viciously.

As Chane rode down to the first hogan the Indian children disappeared as if by magic, and one of Toddy Nokin’s squaws came out. Inquiry for Toddy elicited the information that he was out hunting horses. An old brave, gray and wrinkled, appeared at the hogan door, to bend a dark skinny hand in direction too complicated for Chane’s deduction. Then he asked for Sosie, assured that, if Manerube really had designs upon her, there was time to outwit him. The squaw pointed toward a clump of cedars on the rise of slope just beyond the corral.

Chane rode thither, to find Sosie in the shade of the trees, beside an older squaw who was weaving a blanket. Chane dismounted and, approaching them, he bent a more than usually interested gaze upon Sosie. His greeting was answered in good English. The Indian maiden, though only sixteen years old, had spent the latter nine of these in the government school. She was very pretty, compared with the older Indian women, as she had retained the cleanly and tidy habits fostered upon her at the school. She was slight in build, with small oval face, a golden-bronze complexion, and hair black as the wing of a raven. Her eyes were too large for her face, but they were beautiful. She wore a dark velveteen blouse and necklaces of silver, and her skirt was long, full, and of a bright color. Her little feet were incased in silver-buttoned moccasins.

Her somber face changed at Chane’s arrival. He was used to finding her moody, and thought that indeed she had reason to be. Sosie talked well, and had told Chane more about the Indians, and the tragedy of educated girls like herself, than he could otherwise have learned. It appeared that this morning she had another grievance. Her father, Toddy Nokin, wanted her to marry a young Piute who already had a wife, and he could not understand her objection. Chane sympathized with her and advised her not to marry any Indian she could not love.

“I couldn’t love an Indian,” replied Sosie, in disgust.

“Why not?” queried Chane.

“Because Indian boys who are educated go back to the dirty habits of their people. We girls learn the white people’s way of living. We learn to like clean bodies, clean clothes, clean food. When we try to correct our mothers and fathers we’re accused of being too good for our own people. My father says to me: ‘You’re my blood. Why aren’t my ways right for you?’ Then when I tell him, he can’t understand.”

“Why don’t you leave them and live among white people?” asked Chane.

“I’d have to be a servant. Only a few Indian girls find good places.”

“Well, Sosie, it doesn’t look as if education for Indian girls was right,” said Chane, soberly.

“I don’t say it’s wrong, but it’s hard. If I could help my family I’d be glad. But I can’t. And when I look at a white man they are angry.”

“Sosie, most white men—out here, anyway—are not fit for you to look at,” replied Chane, earnestly.

“Why? I like them better than Indians,” she said, bluntly.

Chane found his mission rather embarrassing, as it had not occurred to him that Sosie would prefer the company of a bad white man to the best Indian her father could present. After deliberating a moment, he talked to her as plainly and kindly as if she had been his sister, explaining why Manerube or one of his class meant nothing but evil toward her. Chane exhausted his argument, at the conclusion of which Sosie said: “You preach like our missionary at school. I’d rather be made love to.”

“But, Sosie,” exclaimed Chane, aghast at her simplicity, “I never made love to you!”

“No. You’re different from other white men out here,” she replied, in a tone that did not indicate that she respected him for it.

“If I made love to you I’d ask you to marry me,” continued Chane, at a loss what to say to this misguided child.

Her reception of this was a shy surprise, a hint of coquetry and response singularly appealing. It made Chane pity her. At the same time he divined that other white men, in their attention to her, had never touched the chord of fineness and sweetness that lay deep in her. Suddenly he realized the fatality of her position, and it distressed him. He did not love her, but almost he wished he did. In his anxious perturbation he launched into an emphatic declaration against Manerube. Sosie listened intently. It was evidently an exciting hour for her.

“But Manerube says he will take me away,” she replied when Chane had concluded his tirade.

Chane was shocked. “Surely he will. But you mustn’t let him.”

“I’ll run off with him,” the girl replied, with something inevitable about her.

“No, you won’t, Sosie,” declared Chane. “I’ll stop you. I told Manerube he’d better not let me see him with you again.”

“What would you do, Mr. Chane?” she asked, a curious dark flash in her eyes.

“Well—that depends on what he did,” rejoined Chane, somewhat taken aback. “I’d beat him good and hard, at least.”

“I thought you said you weren’t in love with me,” cried Sosie, in a sort of wild gladness.

Chane threw up his hands. It was impossible to hear her talk and remember she was Indian, yet the content of what she said forcibly struck home the proof that she was not white. Chane had a momentary desire to tell her he did care for her and thus save her from Manerube; but he reconsidered the hasty thought because, once acted upon, that would involve a greater sacrifice than he could offer.

“Sosie, can’t you understand?” asked Chane, striving for patience, “I don’t love you as a man of my kind must love a girl to want her—to marry her, you know. But I like you. I’m sorry for you. I think you’re a bright, fine little girl. I want to help you. Manerube means bad by you. I know. I’ve heard him say as much to his pards. He’ll destroy your soul. Promise me you’ll not see him again.”

“Yes, I promise—if you’ll come sometimes,” she replied, won by his spirit. There were tears in her big dusky eyes. She was a simple, impulsive child, honest at heart, with the hot blood of her race.

“Of course I’ll come—as long——” he said, breaking off suddenly. He had meant to say he would come as long as he stayed in camp there, but he thought it best to hide from her that he was leaving soon. “I’ll be back in an hour. You stay here.”

“Adios, señor,” she murmured, gladly, speaking the Spanish he had told her pleased him.

Chane rode back to the hogan, hoping to find Toddy Nokin or one of the Indian men. He thought it best to tell some one to keep an eye on Sosie. He was not sure he could trust her. But he did not find anyone, and turned Brutus for the open sage. As he rode, perplexed by the unsolvable problem of this little Indian girl, he became conscious that now, although he pitied her, somehow his sympathy was different from what it had been. He had rather idealized Sosie. It affronted and alienated him to learn she was quite willing to run off with such a man as Manerube.

Chane rode across the rolling upland, keeping sharp lookout along the ridge that Manerube would cross if he had ventured toward the Indian camp. There was, however, no sign of horses in that direction.

“Reckon it was a bluff,” declared Chane, with relief. In spite of McPherson’s hint, he did not entertain a very high regard for Manerube’s courage.

Circling to the south, Chane at length reached the rise of ground running along a shallow league-wide valley, gray and purple with sage, spotted with rocks and cedars, and animated by moving horses. Toddy Nokin and his braves were driving in the last of the mustangs Chane had bargained for. This pleased Chane, for some of these had been ranging Piute Canyon, a deep long gorge, accessible by but few trails.

Brutus saw the moving dots below and lifted his head high, his ears erect. Then Chane put him to a lope down the gradual descent. It soon became evident to Chane that this horse did not need to be guided, except possibly in exceedingly bad ground. The sagebrush did not bother Brutus any more than if it had not been there. He crashed through it; and the little washes and ruts in the red earth, that sometimes tripped an ordinary horse, apparently were the same to Brutus as level ground. His hoofs were so big, his legs so strong, his dexterity and judgment so good, that it seemed safe to ride him anywhere a horse could run.

Down in the center of this oval bowl lay a natural corral, a long narrow space of the best pasture land, barred on two sides by low stone walls that came to an apex at the head of the depression, and shut off at its mouth and widest part by a cedar fence. Even at dry seasons there was always water in the deep hole in the rocks where the walls met; and at this time there was a running stream. Chane arrived as Toddy Nokin and his Indians were driving a bunch of mustangs into this corral.

Chane rode inside to take a look at these mustangs. There were nine of them, and the best of the lot he had seen. A blue roan stood out conspicuously among the tan-colored, black-maned buckskins. They were young horses, fat and sleek, and, unlike most Indian ponies, not at all wild. The Piutes handled horses better than the Navajos. The latter were nomads of the desert, and seldom took time to break and train a horse properly. Most Navajo mustangs were head shy, which was a trait Chane did not like. They had been beaten about the head, or broken with cruel hackamores, or in some way hurt so that they never recovered.

Toddy Nokin rode into the corral, and his braves, who were his sons, put up the poles that formed a gate. He held up his hands to Chane and counted with fingers to the number of twenty-six, and informed Chane he would not sell more. Chane had hoped to buy a larger number, but knew it was useless to try to change Toddy’s mind.

He motioned to Toddy to dismount, and, getting off himself, he went among the mustangs. They would not allow him to get close enough to put a hand on them, until Toddy’s sons drove them back into a bunch. Then Chane, following a habit that was pleasure to him as well as business, leisurely examined them one by one. He just naturally loved horses, and if he had been rich he would have owned a thousand. The blue roan at once took his eye.

“Blue, reckon I’ll keep you,” he said.

Presently he had looked them over to his satisfaction, and repaired to the shade of a cedar, where Toddy squatted, making a flat wisp of a cigarette.

“Toddy, they’re worth more than I offered and you agreed to take,” said Chane, frankly.

The Piute made a gesture that signified a bargain was a bargain. Then he asked, “How much Mormons pay you?”

“Twenty-five dollars for most of them and more for the best,” replied Chane.

Toddy nodded his grizzled old head as if that was something to consider.

“Why good horse trade now?” he asked.

Chane explained to him that a St. Louis horse-dealing company had recently stimulated the wild-horse hunting in Nevada and Utah, which business had stirred the Mormons to more activity.

“Ugh!” grunted Toddy, and then he told Chane he would round up more mustangs of his own, and buy from the Navajos, and drive them across the rivers next moon.

“Next moon,” repeated Chane. “That’ll be after the middle of October. Fine. Will you sell to me or the Mormons?”

“Sell Mormons,” replied Toddy, shrewdly, adding he would pay Chane for finding purchasers.

“Maybe I can get a better price from the wranglers,” replied Chane. “Now, Toddy, where will we meet?”

Whereupon the Piute brushed clear a place in the dust, and taking up a bit of stick he began to draw a map. This sort of thing always interested Chane. The Indians were natural artists, and they held in their minds a wonderful knowledge of the country. Toddy Nokin drew lines to represent the San Juan and Colorado rivers; he made a dot to mark the Hole in the Wall, an outlet from the canyoned wilderness made notorious by outlaws a few years before; he drew the Henry Mountains to the right and Wild Horse Mesa to the left, and between these he laid down a trail he would follow. Somewhere beyond Wild Horse Mesa, at a place he called Nightwatch Spring, he would hold the mustangs to fatten up after that long hard journey over the barren rocks.

“Nightwatch Spring,” said Chane. “I’ve heard of that place from someone—maybe a wrangler.... Toddy, mark out where this water lies.”

Toddy showed Chane where to branch off the main Piute trail, north and west of the low end of Wild Horse Mesa, and he gave Chane the impression that this spring had never been known by whites and lay in a beautiful wide canyon where grass was abundant.

“You want have horse ranch sometime,” concluded Toddy, nodding with great vehemence. “Toddy show you place.”

So much from this old Piute thrilled Chane with its possibilities. How well it paid to be kindly and helpful toward the Indians! No Piute had ever left debt unpaid to him.

“Toddy Nokin, you’re a good fellow,” said Chane as he took out his worn wallet and opened it. “Here’s your money for twenty-six horses.” He counted it out, bill after bill, and placed the sum in Toddy’s wrinkled hand. The Indian did not recount it, and slowly rolling it up he put it in an inside pocket of his coat, after the manner of a white man.

“Grass gone here,” he said, waving his hand to indicate the long pasture-corral. “You go now.”

To leave at once with his newly purchased mustangs, which Toddy manifestly advised, had scarcely been in Chane’s calculations. But a moment’s study told him how necessary that was. If the mustangs were turned loose again to feed they would wander in one night back to their regular haunts. It had taken two weeks to collect the band. Chane saw it the same as Toddy—the mustangs should be driven at once on the way across the rivers, and herded at night or hobbled on the best available grass. It had been his intention to postpone leaving the Piute range, owing to his distrust of McPherson, but this now was obviously impracticable. If he ran any risk from McPherson and his comrades it could hardly be any greater now than it might be next week. Chane decided to break camp that very day, and he told Toddy Nokin so. Whereupon the Piute said he and his sons would ride with him a couple of days, until the mustangs were off their range.

Leaving his sons to follow with the mustangs, Toddy accompanied Chane up the sage slope toward the mounds and knolls of yellow rock that marked the canyon country. Toddy’s hogans lay somewhat south and west of this sage valley where the mustangs had been kept. So that upon his return Chane rode in a direction which would cross Manerube’s trail, if this worthy had approached Toddy’s camp. The fact of such possibility reminded Chane of his promise to Sosie. He would see her, to bid her good-bye, and then he must hurry to his camp. From that moment McPherson, Horn, and Slack occupied Chane’s thoughts. The situation was not to his liking, yet there had not occurred to him an alternative.

Riding along at a brisk trot, Chane, with Toddy Nokin loping behind on his shaggy little mustang, approached a zone of gray and yellow wind-worn rocks, as high as hills, and with both sloping and abrupt walls. Cedars grew thickly around them and in the winding lanes that separated them.

Turning a corner of wall, Chane’s quick eye sighted a pack horse trotting toward him, and then part of another horse, mostly concealed by an intervening cedar. They were in line with Chane. Quick as a flash he leaped off, and motioning Toddy Nokin to do likewise he led Brutus behind a thick low-branched cedar. Toddy slipped close behind him, stooping to peer through the branches.

“Ugh!” he grunted.

Chane saw Manerube ride into sight, coming at a good trot and leading a pack horse. Behind Manerube bobbed a black head, now in view, then disappearing. Presently Chane got a better look at it.

“Sosie! Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” he ejaculated, in amaze and dismay.

The Indian girl was riding behind Manerube, and she had both arms round him. At the moment her gold-bronze face flashed in the sunlight. Chane watched intently, standing motionless until Manerube had ridden within one hundred feet of the cedar that concealed Chane and Toddy. Sosie’s face bobbed out to the side of Manerube’s shoulder. Most assuredly it was not the face of an unwillingly abducted girl. It wore a smile. The wide dark eyes gleamed. Her white teeth showed.

Chane’s rush of anger was almost as much against her as Manerube. Jerking his rifle from its saddle-sheath, he cocked it and stepped out to level it at Manerube.

“Stop! Quick! Hands up!” he ordered.

The approaching horse snorted and jumped. Manerube hauled it to a halt. Then as his hands shot aloft his ruddy face paled.

“Up they are!” he said, hoarsely, in rage and discomfiture.

Chane strode forward, and he heard the padding of Toddy’s moccasined feet close behind him.

“Sosie—get off that horse,” called Chane, sharply.

The Indian girl almost fell off in the hurry that actuated her. There was no radiance now on her face, nor any of the stoical Indian courage which should have been an heritage. Her big eyes were distended.

“Manerube, I’ve a mind to shoot you,” declared Chane, with the rifle steadily leveled.

“What for? I’ve not done you any dirt,” replied the other, thickly. “You’ve no call to kill me on this little hussy’s account.”

“I’m not so sure. You’ve made her run off with you,” retorted Chane.

“Made nothing. She wants to go.”

Toddy Nokin shuffled round to the side of Chane and approached his daughter. He swung his quirt. Chane saw Sosie shrink and her eyes dilate.

“Hold on, Toddy!” called Chane, and then, stepping aside so that he had the girl in line with Manerube, he addressed her: “Sosie, were you willing to go with him?”

“Yes,” she answered, sullenly. “But it was because he says he’ll marry me.”

“Manerube, you hear what Sosie said. Is it true? You’re talking to a white man now.”

“No, you damn fool!” shouted Manerube. “I wouldn’t marry a squaw.”

Chane eyed Manerube in silence for a moment. The man had no sense of guilt, and he was not afraid to tell the truth.

“Well, I reckon you’d better sit tight and keep your hands high,” went on Chane. “Toddy, you take his gun.”

The Piute advanced upon Manerube, and quickly jerking his gun from its holster, he stepped back. Then Chane strode round Manerube to see if he had another weapon.

“Get off your horse,” ordered Chane, and handed both his rifle and his short gun to the Indian.

Manerube stared, without complying. At the outset of this encounter he had showed fear, but now, as there seemed no certainty of a fatal issue for him, the color was returning to his face.

Chane wasted no more words. Laying a powerful hold on Manerube, he jerked him from the saddle to the ground, where he sprawled hard.

“Get up, before I kick you!” went on Chane, yielding to an anger that grew hot.

Manerube got to his feet, with astonishment giving way to fury. Chane rushed him and knocked him flat. He raised on his elbow, then on his hand, while he extended the other, now shaking with passion. A reddening lump appeared on his face.

“I’ll kill you!” he hissed.

“Aw, get up and fight!” retorted Chane, derisively, and he kicked Manerube, not with violence, but hard enough to elicit a solid thump. It served to make Manerube leap erect and plunge at Chane. They fought all over the place, dealing each other blow for blow. Manerube was no match for Chane at that game, and manifestly saw it, for he tried to close in. Failing that, he maneuvered until he was near enough Toddy to snatch at one of the guns Toddy held. The Indian showed surprising agility in leaping aside.

“Manerube—you’re just—what I said—you were,” panted Chane, hoarsely. Rushing at Manerube and battering him down, Chane did not let him rise, but beat him soundly until he was most thoroughly whipped. Then Chane got up, to wipe sweat and blood and dust from his face.

“Take your gun—and your horses—and rustle,” ordered Chane, jerking the weapons from Toddy. He threw Manerube’s gun at his feet. Then with rifle leveled low Chane watched the man sit up, draw the gun to him by the barrel, and rise with his back to Chane. He shoved the gun into its holster, and strode, staggering a little, toward where his horses had moved. Chane kept close watch on him, ready for another show of treachery. But Manerube mounted and took up the halter of the pack animal, not looking back until he had started to ride off. Then his pallid discolored face expressed a passion that boded ill to Chane. He rode out of sight among the cedars. Chane turned to the Indians. Toddy Nokin had in no wise lost anything of his dignity, at least in his attitude toward Chane. He returned the small gun Chane had handed him. Sosie had quite recovered from what fright she had sustained, and was now regarding her champion with dusky eyes alight. Not before had the fragility of her, nor the prettiness, and something half tame, half wild, struck Chane so forcibly. But his sympathy and her appeal both went down before his anger.

“Sosie, you’re no good,” he declared.

Instantly she grew sullen, defiant.

“I’m what white men have made me,” she responded.

Chane had not adequate reply for that, and indeed felt helpless.

Toddy Nokin yelled something in Piute at his wayward daughter, and as she whirled he aimed a swing of the quirt and likewise a kick at her, both of which fell short. Like a flash the supple figure moved out of reach. She screeched back at them. Chane could not decide whether it was the wild-cat cry of an Indian squaw or the passionate expression of her white learning. Perhaps it was both.