Next day (or I should say, later in that day), we continued our journey, after a few hours' sleep and a monstrous breakfast; but never another word was spoken on the matter of the previous night and in the bright afternoon we came into Kettle River Gap and found that the "east-bound" was due at three in the afternoon.
In the hotel to which we repaired for refreshment Apache Kid wrote a letter to a dealer in New York, a letter which I was to deliver in person, carrying with me the turquoises.
"One gets far better prices in New York than in any of the western towns," explained Apache Kid. "You can rely on this fellow, too. We are old friends, and he will do the square thing. You can send on half the amount to me, deducting what you have lent me."
"Oh, nonsense!" said I.
"Deducting what you have lent me," he repeated. "Twenty dollars at the Half-Way House and fifty at Camp Kettle. That makes seventy."
"You will need some more," said I.
"No," said he. "I have still almost all the fifty, of course, and I can sell the two pintos for what I paid for them. Don't worry me. I have never been obliged to a soul in my life for anything."
But looking up and catching my eye looking sadly on him he smiled and: "Humour me," he said, "humour me in this."
When the letter was written he handed it to me, open, and said:
"Well, that is all, I think, until we hear the east-bound whistle."