"Stanton, who's a big body of a man an' nacherally tharfore some road-weary, camps down the moment he's free of the stirrups an' writes a letter on the agency steps by the light of a lantern. He tells Merritt to push on to the War Bonnet an' he'll head the Cheyennes off. Then he sends the Red Cloud interpreter an' four local Injuns with lead hosses to pack this information back to Merritt who's waitin' the word at the Rawhide Buttes. Bloojacket, for all he's done a hundred miles, declar's himse'f in on this second excursion to show the interpreter the way.
"'But you-all won't last through,' says Stanton, where he sets on the steps, quaffin' whiskey an' reinvig'ratin' himse'f.
"'Which if I don't, I'll turn squaw!' says Bloojacket, an' gettin' fresh hosses with the others he goes squanderin' off into the midnight.
"Son, them savages, havin' lead hosses, rides in on Merritt by fifth drink time or say, 'leven o'clock that mornin';—one hundred miles in 'leven hours! An' Bloojacket some wan an' weary for a savage is a-leadin' up the dance. Mighty fair ridin' that boy Bloojacket does! Two hundred miles in twenty-three hours over a clost country ain't bad! Which it's me who says so: an' one time an' another I shore shoves plenty of scenery onder the hoofs of a cayouse myse'f.
"About the foogitive Cheyennes? Merritt moves up to the War Bonnet like Stanton su'gests, corrals 'em, kills their ponies an' drives 'em back to the agency on foot. Thar's nothin' so lets the whey outen a hoss-back Injun like puttin' him a-foot: an the Cheyennes settles down in sorrow an' peace immediate.
"While Hardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket is with me, I'm impressed partic'lar by the love they b'ars each other. I never does cut the trail of a father an' son who gives themse'fs up to one another like this Hardrobe an' his Bloojacket boy. I can see that Bloojacket regyards old Hardrobe like he's the No'th Star; an' as for Hardrobe himse'f, he can't keep his eyes off that child of his. You'd have had his life long before he'd let you touch a braid of Bloojacket's long ha'r. Both of 'em's plenty handsome for Injuns; tall an' lean an' quick as coyotes, with hands an' feet as little as a woman's.
"While I don't go pryin' 'round this Hardrobe's private affairs—savages is mighty sensitive of sech matters—I learns, incidental, that Hardrobe is fair rich. He's rich even for Osages; an' they're as opulent savages as ever makes a dance or dons a feather. Later, I finds out that Hardrobe's squaw—Bloojacket's mother—is dead.
"'See thar?' says Hardrobe one day. We're in the southern border of the Osage country on the Grayhoss at the time, an' he p'ints to a heap of stones piled up like a oven an' chimley, an' about four foot high. I saveys thar's a defunct Osage inside. You-all will behold these little piles of burial stones on every knoll an' hill in the Osage country. 'See thar,' says this Hardrobe, p'intin'. 'That's my squaw. Mighty good squaw once; but heap dead now.'
"Then Hardrobe an' Bloojacket rides over an' fixes a little flag they've got in their war-bags to a pole which sticks up'ards outen this tomb, flyin' the ensign as Injuns allers does, upside down.
"It's six months later, mebby—an' it's now the hard luck begins—when I hears how Hardrobe weds a dance-hall girl over to Caldwell. This maiden's white; an' as beautiful as a flower an' as wicked as a trant'ler. Hardrobe brings her to his ranch in the Osage country.