“By Gad!” he cried aloud, and with a heat which belied his self-abnegation. “If he were only a decent white man! But to be let down and out by the only woman I ever gave a whoop for in all my life, for a fellow like that! Say, it’s tough!”
Ralston’s newly acquired serenity, the depth of which he had reason to doubt, was further disturbed by a distant clatter of hoofs. He sat up and watched the oncoming of the angriest-looking Indian that ever quirted a cayuse over a reservation. It was Bear Chief, whom he knew slightly. Seeing Ralston’s saddled horse, the Indian pulled up a little, which was as well, since the white man was immediately in his path.
As the Indian came back, Ralston, who had rolled over to let him pass, remarked dryly:
“The country is getting so crowded, it’s hardly safe for a man to sit around like this. What’s the excitement, Bear Chief?”
“Horse-thief steal Indian horses!” he cried, pointing toward the Bad Lands.
Ralston was instantly alert.
“Him ridin’ my race-pony—fastest pony on de reservation. Got big bunch. Runnin’ ’em off!”
Fast moving specks that rose and fell among the hills of the Bad Lands bore out the Indian’s words.
“Did you see him?”
Ralston was slipping the bit back in his horse’s mouth and tightening the cinch.