Laney’s father had been an Irish steamboat captain on Lake Superior, his mother, a Chippewa squaw, and the cross had produced an unusual type. The Indian blood which keeps a half-breed silent and shy before strangers had no such effect upon Laney. His prowess was his theme and his vanity was a byword on the Reservation. He obtained his fashions from the catalogue of a wholesale house in Chicago which furnishes the trusting pioneer with the latest thing in oil drills or feather boas. It was common belief that Laney’s high celluloid collar would some day cut his head off.
Laney’s waking hours were spent in planning schemes of primitive crudeness whereby he might acquire affluence without labor. In his dreams the tenderfoot tourist was generally the person who was to remove him from penury.
“Hello, Porcupine!” called Belle Dashiel, coming to the door with a pink bow pinned on a pompadour of amazing height.
“Hullo yourself!” replied Porcupine, elated at his ready wit and the cordiality in her voice.
“How’s John?”
The smile faded from his face.
“Good ’nough,” he replied shortly.
“When’s he comin’ down?”
“Dunno. Any mail for me?”
“A letter and a paper.”