“I run it, you bet,” answered Spangler, ruffling his double-chin and wondering at the red handkerchief about Wild Bill’s arm.
“Got accommodations for two?” queried the Laramie man.
“Fer two whites, yes—meals, four bits, and a bed, a dollar. But”—and here Bije Spangler cast a disapproving eye on the Ponca—“I don’t feed or house Injuns fer no money. Not meanin’ any disrespect fer yerself, neighbor,” added Spangler hastily, noting the glint that rose in Wild Bill’s eye, “but I couldn’t keep open house fer reds without sp’ilin’ the repertation o’ my hotel.”
The Ponca sat up stiff and straight on his horse.
“Where I stay, he stays,” averred Wild Bill; “what’s good enough for him is good enough for me. He’s plum white, all but his skin.”
“So’s a Greaser,” grunted Spangler, “or a Chink. Sorry to appear disobligin’, ’specially as you-all seems to have run inter trouble somewheres. You’re welcome to stop, but the Injun’ll have ter camp out in the chaparral.”
Wild Bill was in no mood for arguing the case, and he was about to ride on, when the Ponca leaned forward and stopped him.
“You want um Ponca take paper-talk to Pa-e-has-ka, hey?” he asked.
“Sure I do, Crawling Bear,” replied Wild Bill, “but I don’t want you to start for Sill until you have rested yourself and your horse.”
“Ugh! no want um rest. Feel plenty fine. Me take um paper-talk now.”