A half hour slipped by, a period wherein the horses walked and galloped, and walked again, ere the white man forgot, ere the instinct of companionship, the necessity of conversation, urban-fostered, gained mastery. Then as before, he looked at the other surreptitiously, through unconsciously narrowed lids.
"I haven't yet asked your name?" he formalised baldly, curtly.
The guide showed no surprise, no consciousness of the long silence preceding.
"The Sioux call me Ma-wa-cha-sa: the ranchers, How Landor."
Craig dropped the reins over his saddle and fumbled in his pockets.
"The Indian word has a meaning, I presume?"
"Translated into English, it would be 'the lost pappoose.'"
The eyebrows of the Easterner lifted; but he made no comment.
"You have been with my uncle, with Mr. Landor, I mean, long?"
"Since I can remember—almost."