"Here 's Charley," was the irrelevant response. The Indian was a welcome diversion. Buck slowed to a walk, raised his eyes and waved Charley an amiable salute. The Cheyenne promptly left the trail and rode to join them.
"Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck, pointing to the hoof prints.
The Indian barely glanced at them. "French Rose," he declared. "Cross trail, swim river before sun. Heap good horse."
"Where goin', Charley—ranch?" asked Buck, evenly. He did not question the Cheyenne's conclusions. He knew. Buck was satisfied of that.
Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily under Buck's stare. "That's all right," assured Buck, "tell Jake to give you—no, wait for me. I 'll be there as soon as you are." He turned away and Charley accepted his dismissal in high good humor, riding off with cheering visions of a cupful of the "old man's" whiskey, which was very different from that dispensed over the bar in Twin River.
"Well, Ned," said Buck.
"Well, Buck," returned Ned.
"You knew it was Rose's horse."
"I was a-feared."
"You knew it, you durn ol' grizzly."