She held out her hand once more. John took it, bowed low, and, to her surprise, lifted it to his lips. It was an act that astonished Frank more than any one else, for, despite what he knew of Swiftwing, he had felt that the Indian was incapable of such a thing.
With a wave of his hand to Frank and the others, Swiftwing turned and walked away.
“He is a splendid fellow!” said Inza, a flush on her cheeks. “I did not suppose there could be such a difference between two Indians.”
“Look out, Frankie, me b’y!” chuckled Barney. “It’s a rid roival ye’ll have th’ firrust thing ye know.”
Miss Abigail gave a contemptuous sniff.
“He appeared all right,” she said “but even he is an Indian, and no Indian can ever be like a white man.”
It seemed that John Swiftwing’s ears were remarkably keen, for he seemed to hear those words, and he paused suddenly, turning about with a proud gesture. He was at the corner of the station, and not one of that group ever forgot how he looked as he stood there, looking back at them with all the haughtiness of his nature aroused. With something like a gesture of anger and disdain, he turned again and vanished around the corner.
A moment later he was seen galloping away on the back of a tough little pony, going like the wind and riding like a Centaur.
“How could you have said that so he could hear you, aunt!” pouted Inza, her eyes following the retreating figure of Swiftwing. “It was too bad, after all he did for—for me!”
Barney nudged Frank in the ribs, whispering: