A “greaser” is the common name for a Mexican Indian.
“What an ugly, stupid-looking fellow,” thought Kirke; “I don’t believe he knows a string from a rattlesnake.”
But, unpromising as he appeared, the Indian understood a little English, and, on being offered a silver quarter, uncoiled from his neck a long, narrow strip of deerskin, and with it tied together the splintered ends of the thill.
“The greasers use those strips of deerhide when they tote bundles on their backs,” explained the captain, when they were again on their way. “He has spliced the shaft pretty firmly, Kirke, but it may draw apart. You’d better keep close watch of it.”
The damaged thill was the one on Kirke’s side of the phaeton, and for the rest of the drive he felt such a responsibility about it that he forgot everything else; he even forgot his beloved little terrier.
They were entering the city before he noticed that Shot was nowhere in sight. Then he remembered that he had not seen him since leaving Mr. Keith’s ranch.
“Now I think of it, I haven’t seen him either,” said Captain Bradstreet. “Maybe the little scamp took a notion to stay with Paul.”
“Oh, no, Captain Bradstreet, that wouldn’t be a bit like Shot!” exclaimed Kirke vehemently. “Don’t you know how he’s always tagging after me?”
“Yes, like a dory after a pilot boat,” said the captain, smiling.
“Where can he be, I wonder? Do you suppose—you don’t suppose—that hateful Chinaman can have lamed him or anything?”