“Keepin’ track o’ what?” asked Lonesome Pete distrustfully.
“Why, of the number of times that ‘he-haw’ racket has been worked on me when I’ve told my name. Your performance was the thirty-sixth time.”
Reginald de Bray heaved a long breath of patient resignation.
The Montegordo stage—which was nothing more than a mountain-wagon drawn by four horses—was well on the road to Sun Dance.
Pete and De Bray were riding with the driver. On the seat behind was a woman—a slender figure of a woman she was, with her face closely veiled. The woman’s seatmate was a rough-and-ready miner named Hotchkiss.
The seat behind the woman and Hotchkiss was occupied by Little Cayuse.
These six—the driver, Pete, De Bray, the woman, Hotchkiss, and the Indian boy—comprised the load. Around the Indian was heaped a carpetbag, two grips, and a mail-pouch.
The woman had not spoken a word since leaving Montegordo. Hotchkiss was almost as silent, being thoughtful and busying himself with his pipe. The Indian was like a graven image, so far as talking was concerned; but, unlike an image, nothing in his vicinity escaped his keen eyes and ears.
Conversation was confined entirely to the three on the driver’s seat.
“Ho-hum!” yawned Lonesome Pete, stretching his long arms. “This hyer ride is plumb tiresome. Mister De Bray,” he added, with elaborate politeness, “the sight o’ such a gent as yerself, in these parts, is almost as uncommon as the sight of a lady,” and his eyes shifted over his shoulder significantly. “Mind tellin’ what yer bizness is in this section?”