“Nothin’. I was jest torkin’ ter give my bazoo exercise. No man knows jest when trouble is goin’ ter hit him. Sometimes he kin see et a good ways off, like er choo-choo train. He kin hyer ther bell an’ ther whistle, an’ ef he’s a-walkin’ on ther track, he’s er ijut ef he don’t step off, an’ let et go by. An’ then, ag’in, trouble comes on ye around a sharp curve. The despatcher mixes orders, er somethin’, an’ afore ye know et ye’re tangled up in a head-on collision. Now, thet’s what I call——”
Nomad was interrupted. As if to illustrate his rambling remarks, the crack of a rifle was heard in the distance, followed by a shrill scream.
The two pards, at that moment, were on the crest of a rocky ridge. Instinctively they stopped their horses and shot their glances in the direction from which the report and the scream reached them. What they saw set their pulses to a swifter beat.
Speeding toward them along the foot of the ridge was an Indian girl. She was mounted on a sorrel cayuse, and the pony was getting over the ground like a streak. The girl was bending forward, her blanket flying in the wind behind, and her quirt was dropping on the pony’s withers with lightninglike rapidity.
She was being pursued by an Indian buck, armed with a rifle. The buck seemed savagely determined to overtake the girl. He was mounted on a larger, and evidently a fleeter, horse, for at every stride he came a shade closer.
“Is thet ther ceremony o’ ther fastest hoss, Buffler?” queried the startled Nomad. “Ef ther buck ketches ther gal, will she marry him? Hey?”
“That isn’t the ceremony of the fastest horse, Nick,” answered the scout. “The buck wouldn’t be shooting at the girl if it was.”
“Mebbyso he was jest shootin’ ter skeer her.”
“It’s not the right way to win a bride—or a Cheyenne bride. As near as I can make out, those two are Cheyennes.”
“Ther gal’s a Cheyenne, but at this distance I take ther buck fer a Ponca.”