The Indians stalked on.
"I might be able to scare up a bottle of fire-water—"
No response. Torrance sank into a chair and drew his sleeve across his forehead.
"Talkative? By hickory, they reek with it. They sure got my goat. All the squaws I ever saw before were so thick with grease, and the things that stick to it. . . . I'm beginning to feel for the squaw-man after seeing that girl."
"Wasn't she pretty?" Tressa was staring regretfully after the receding couple. "I didn't know they were so dainty—-"
"Wasn't I telling you they aren't—"
Conrad spoke for the first time: "I've seen that chap before."
"Me, too," said Torrance. "But I can't imagine not picking him out of any Indians I ever met. They don't grow 'em like him. Our fire-water, with here and there a missionary for good measure, sees to that. Oh, hello, Sergeant!" Unheard, Sergeant Mahon had come along the soft grade and was watching the Indians now almost at the other end of the trestle. "You missed the fun. Highest velocity conversation on two words ever."
The Sergeant whipped out his binoculars. He did not move again until the Indians had galloped out of sight.
"What d'you make of 'em, Sergeant?"