There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart scar of a lance thrust along his left side, for fear he might be forbidden to go on that second war-path. Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita:
"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He is a warrior already. He will be a great chief some day. Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never been on a war-path."
She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great distance, at that very moment, talking in a low, earnest tone with Murray.
Their conversation could not be overheard by their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expressions that came and went upon their faces. Dolores was busy at the camp fire, as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.
"How old do you think she is, Steve?"
"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."
"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners on the Santa Rita mine."
"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"
"I've watched her. There's no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make sure of."