"We won't show her the talking leaves till father says we may keep them. Then she'll be afraid to touch them. She hates me."
"No, she doesn't. She likes me best, that's all."
"She'd better not hate me, Rita. I'll have her beaten if she isn't good to me. I'm an Apache."
The black-eyed daughter of the great chief had plenty of self-will and temper. There could be no doubt of that. She sprang upon her mustang with a quick, impatient bound, and Rita followed, clinging to her prizes, wondering what would be the decision of Many Bears and his councillors as to the ownership of them.
A few minutes of swift riding brought the two girls to the border of the camp.
"Rita, Red Wolf!"
"I see him. He is coming to meet us, but he does not want us to think so."
That was a correct guess. The tall, hawk-nosed young warrior, who was now riding toward them, was a perfect embodiment of Indian haughtiness, and even his sister was a mere "squaw" in his eyes. As for Rita, she was not only a squaw, but was not even a full-blooded Apache, and was to be looked down upon accordingly.
He was an Indian and a warrior, and would one day be a chief like his father. Still, he had so far laid aside his usual cold dignity as to turn to meet that sisterly pair, if only to find out why they were in such a hurry.
"What scared you?"