In the ranch yard the men had stopped to argue. Cheetim could see them but he could not understand the delay. He could only curse silently, dividing his attention between them and the road to the west, along which he could hear the approaching hoof beats.
“What’s the use of packin’ this girl double?” the man who had been assigned to carry Wichita demanded. “We got plenty time an’ they’s a hoss standin’ right down there in the c’ral.”
“ ‘Dirty’ said not to waste no time,” demurred another.
The mention of Cheetim’s descriptive nickname was the first intimation Wichita had received of the origin and purpose of the plan to abduct her. Now she understood—it was all clear, horribly clear. For years the man had hounded and annoyed her. Twice before he had tried to take her forcibly. It looked now as though he might succeed. Who was there to succor her? Her father dead and every man in her employ gone, for how long she could not guess. There was no one. She wondered why it was that at that moment the figure of an almost naked, bronze savage filled her thoughts to the exclusion of every other source of salvation, and that while she nursed her hatred of him she involuntarily almost prayed that some miracle might bring him to her.
The man who had suggested a separate horse for Wichita insisted. “It won’t take two minutes,” he said, “an’ if we are follered we kin make better time than if one of the hosses is packin’ double.”
“Hell, then,” exclaimed one of his fellows, “instead of chawin’ the fat let’s git a hoss. Here, you!” he addressed Luis. “Fetch that hoss. Throw a saddle onto him an’ a lead rope.”
As Luis hastened to obey, Cheetim, seeing the further delay, became frantic. The horseman was approaching rapidly along the road from the west, and the men in the ranch yard were wasting valuable time.
Out on the east range Shoz-Dijiji, having finished his breakfast, mounted Nejeunee and turned the pony’s head toward the east, toward the distant mountains where the Gila rises, toward the ancient stamping grounds of the Be-don-ko-he.
He had no plans for the future. He wanted only to get away. He had seen Wichita Billings through his field glasses, and the sight of her had but aggravated the old hurt. Sad and lonely, the war chief rode toward the deserted camp grounds of his vanished people, where now were only brooding memories.
Luke Jensen galloped into sight of the ranch. Cheetim, lying behind a boulder at the top of a hill, covered him with his rifle sights and fired. Luke heard the bullet scream past his ear. Forewarned of some danger, he knew not what, he was prepared. He took two flying shots at the puff of smoke at the hill top where his unknown assailant lay, dug the rowels into his pony’s sides, and raced for the ranch gate that he saw was standing open.