“Whiskey,” said the Apache.
“Le’me see the color of your dust, John.”
A rider coming into view from the direction of the post attracted Cheetim’s attention. “Wait till we see who that is,” he said. “I don’t want none of those damn long hairs catchin’ me dishin’ red-eye to no Siwash.”
They all stood watching the approaching rider.
“Why it’s a woman,” said one of the men.
“Durned if it ain’t,” admitted another.
“Hell!” exclaimed Cheetim. “It’s Billings’ girl—the dirty——!”
“What you got agin’ her?” asked one of the party.
“Got against her? Plenty! I offered to marry her, and she turned me down flat. Then her old man run me offen the ranch. It was lucky for him that they was a bunch of his cow-hands hangin’ around.”
The girl passed, her horse swinging along in an easy, running walk—the gait that eats up the miles. Down the dusty trail they passed while the five white men and the Apache stood on the front porch of the Hog Ranch and watched.