Rawley turned his back on her indignantly and discovered the old squaw sitting solidly where the lead burro had placed her. She was very fat, and she filled that portion of the trail which she occupied. The red bandana was pushed back on her head, and her gray curtain of bangs was parted rakishly on one side. She was staring at Rawley fixedly, a look of terror in her eyes.
He went to her, meaning to help her up. Now that he recalled that first panicky moment, he remembered that the burro had deposited her with some force in her present position. She might be hurt.
But the old squaw put up her hands before her, palms out to ward him off. She cried out, a shrill expostulation in her own tongue which caused the girl to swing round quickly and hurry toward her.
“No, no! He isn’t a ghost! Whatever made you think of such a thing? He doesn’t mean to harm you—no, he is not a spirit. He merely fell down hill, and he wants to help you up. Are you hurt—Grandmother?” Her clear, gray-brown eyes went quickly, defiantly to Rawley’s face.
That young man could not repress a startled look, which traveled from the slim girl, indubitably white, to the squaw whimpering in the trail. She must be trying her own hand at a joke, he thought, just to break even with his fancied presumption in halting their leisurely progress down the trail.
From up on the ridge a rifle cracked. The three turned heads toward the thin, sinister report. They waited motionless for a moment. Then the girl spoke.
“That wasn’t fired in our direction,” she said, and immediately there came the sound of another shot. “And that’s not the same gun,” she added. “That sounds like an old-fashioned gun shooting black powder. Didn’t you hear the pow-w of it?”
“That would be Johnny Buffalo—my Indian partner,” said Rawley. “You folks stay here. I’m going back up there and see what’s doing.”
“Is that necessary?” The girl looked at him quickly. “I think you ought to help turn Deacon right side up before you go.” She leaned sidewise and peered down over the bank. “He’s in an awful mess. His pack is wedged between two bowlders, and his legs are sticking straight up in the air.”
Rawley sent a hasty glance down the bank. “He’s all right—he’s flopping his ears,” he observed reassuringly. “I’ll be back just as soon as I see how Johnny Buffalo is making out. That fellow may have got him. You stay back here out of sight. Promise me.” He looked at her earnestly, as if by the force of his will he would compel obedience.