The sun was setting as Wichita Billings dismounted wearily at the corral back of the ranch house. Luke Jensen came from the bunk house to take her pony.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked.
“One of the boys found a beef killed this mornin’. He said it looked like Injuns hed done it. Yore Dad rid over to hev a look at it. He ought to be back right smart soon now.” Luke glanced over across the back pasture toward the east. Wichita knitted her brows.
“Did he go that way?” she asked. “Alone?”
“Yep,” assented Luke.
“Get one of the other boys to go with you, and ride out and meet him. If Apaches killed the beef there may be some of them around.” Wichita turned toward the ranch house, hesitated, and then walked back to Luke.
“Luke,” she said, “you don’t hate all Indians do you?”
“You know I don’t, Miss. I’d a bin dead now ef it hedn’t a-bin fer one of ’em. Why?”
“Well, if you ever meet an Apache, Luke, remember that, and don’t shoot until you’re plumb sure he’s hostile.”
Jensen scratched his head. “Yes, Miss,” he said, “but what’s the idee?”