She got no reply to that. Indeed, she did not wait for a reply. Outside, things were happening—and, since Miss Georgie was dying of dullness, she hailed the disturbance as a Heaven-sent blessing, and ran to see what was going on.
Briefly, Grant had inadvertently stepped on a sleeping dog’s paw—a dog of the mongrel breed which infests Indian camps, and which had attached itself to the blanketed buck inside. The dog awoke with a yelp, saw that it was a stranger who had perpetrated the outrage, and straightway fastened its teeth in the leg of Grant’s trousers. Grant kicked it loose, and when it came at him again, he swore vengeance and mounted his horse in haste.
He did not say a word. He even smiled while he uncoiled his rope, widened the loop, and, while the dog was circling warily and watching for another chance at him, dropped the loop neatly over its front quarters, and drew it tight.
Saunders, a weak-lunged, bandy-legged individual, who was officially a general chore man for Pete, but who did little except lie in the shade, reading novels or gossiping, awoke then, and, having a reputation for tender-heartedness, waved his arms and called aloud in the name of peace.
“Turn him loose, I tell yuh! A helpless critter like that—you oughta be ashamed—abusin’ dumb animals that can’t fight back!”
“Oh, can’t he?” Grant laughed grimly.
“You turn that dog loose!” Saunders became vehement, and paid the penalty of a paroxysm of coughing.
“You go to the devil. If you were an able-bodied man, I’d get you, too—just to have a pair of you. Yelping, snapping curs, both of you.” He played the dog as a fisherman plays a trout.
“That dog, him Viney dog. Viney heap likum. You no killum, Good Injun.” The Indian, his arms folded in his blanket, stood upon the porch watching calmly the fun. “Viney all time heap mad, you killum,” he added indifferently.
“Sure it isn’t old Hagar’s?”
“No b’long-um Hagar—b’long-um Viney. Viney heap likum.”
Grant hesitated, circling erratically with his victim close to the steps. “All right, no killum—teachum lesson, though. Viney heap bueno squaw—heap likum Viney. No likum dog, though. Dog all time come along me.” He glanced up, passed over the fact that Miss Georgie Howard was watching him and clapping her hands enthusiastically at the spectacle, and settled an unfriendly stare upon Saunders.
“You shut up your yowling. You’ll burst a blood vessel and go to heaven, first thing you know. I’ve never contemplated hiring you as my guardian angel, you blatting buck sheep. Go off and lie down somewhere.” He turned in the saddle and looked down at the dog, clawing and fighting the rope which held him fast just back of the shoulder—blades. “Come along, doggie—nice doggie!” he grinned, and touched his horse with the spurs. With one leap, it was off at a sharp gallop, up over the hill and through the sagebrush to where he knew the Indian camp must be.
Old Wolfbelly had but that morning brought his thirty or forty followers to camp in the hollow where was a spring of clear water—the hollow which had for long been known locally as “the Indian Camp,” because of Wolfbelly’s predilection for the spot. Without warning save for the beat of hoofs in the sandy soil, Grant charged over the brow of the hill and into camp, scattering dogs, papooses, and squaws alike as he rode.
Shrill clamor filled the sultry air. Sleeping bucks awoke, scowling at the uproar; and the horse of Good Indian, hating always the smell and the litter of an Indian camp, pitched furiously into the very wikiup of old Hagar, who hated the rider of old. In the first breathing spell he loosed the dog, which skulked, limping, into the first sheltered spot he found, and laid him down to lick his outraged person and whimper to himself at the memory of his plight. Grant pulled his horse to a restive stand before a group of screeching squaws, and laughed outright at the panic of them.
“Hello! Viney! I brought back your dog,” he drawled. “He tried to bite me—heap kay bueno1 dog. Mebbyso you killum. Me no hurtum—all time him Hartley, all time him try hard bite me. Sleeping Turtle tell me him Viney dog. He likum Viney, me no kill Viney dog. You all time mebbyso eat that dog—sabe? No keep—Kay bueno. All time try for bite. You cookum, no can bite. Sabe?”
Without waiting to see whether Viney approved of his method of disciplining her dog, or intended to take his advice regarding its disposal, he wheeled and started off in the direction of the trail which led down the bluff to the Hart ranch. When he reached the first steep descent, however, he remembered that Pete had spoken of some mail for the Harts, and turned back to get it.
Once more in Hartley, he found that the belated train was making up time, and would be there within an hour; and, since it carried mail from the West, it seemed hardly worthwhile to ride away before its arrival. Also, Pete intimated that there was a good chance of prevailing upon the dining-car conductor to throw off a chunk of ice. Grant, therefore, led his horse around into the shade, and made himself comfortable while he waited.
CHAPTER III
OLD WIVES TALES
Down the winding trail of Snake River bluff straggled a blanketed half dozen of old Wolfbelly’s tribe, the braves stalking moodily in front and kicking up a gray cloud of dust which enveloped the squaws behind them but could not choke to silence their shrill chatter; for old Hagar was there, and Viney, and the incident of the dog was fresh in their minds and tickling their tongues.
The Hart boys were assembled at the corral, halter-breaking a three-year-old for the pure fun of it. Wally caught sight of the approaching blotch of color, and yelled a wordless greeting; him had old Hagar carried lovingly upon her broad shoulders with her own papoose when he was no longer than her arm; and she knew his voice even at that distance, and grinned—grinned and hid her joy in a fold of her dingy red blanket.
“Looks like old Wolfbelly’s back,” Clark observed needlessly. “Donny, if they don’t go to the house right away, you go and tell mum they’re here. Chances are the whole bunch’ll hang around till supper.”
“Say!” Gene giggled with fourteen-year-old irrepressibility. “Does anybody know where Vadnie is? If we could spring ’em on her and make her believe they’re on the warpath—say, I’ll gamble she’d run clear to the Malad!”
“I told her, cross my heart, this morning that the Injuns are peaceful now. I said Good Injun was the only one that’s dangerous—oh, I sure did throw a good stiff load, all right!” Clark grinned at the memory. “I’ve got to see Grant first, when he gets back, and put him wise to the rep he’s got. Vad didn’t hardly swallow it. She said: ‘Why, Cousin Clark! Aunt Phoebe says he’s perfectly lovely!”’ Clark mimicked the girl’s voice with relish.
“Aw—there’s a lot of squaws tagging along behind!” Donny complained disgustedly from his post of observation on the fence. “They’ll go to the house first thing to gabble—there’s old Hagar waddling along like a duck. You can’t make that warpath business stick, Clark—not with all them squaws.”
“Well, say, you sneak up and hide somewhere till yuh see if Vadnie’s anywhere around. If they get settled down talking to mum, they’re good for an hour—she’s churning, Don—you hide in the rocks by the milk-house till they get settled. And I’ll see if—Git! Pikeway, while they’re behind the stacks!”
Donny climbed down and scurried through the sand to the house as if his very life depended upon reaching it unseen. The group of Indians came up, huddled at the corral, and peered through the stout rails.
“How! How!” chorused the boys, and left the horse for a moment while they shook hands ceremoniously with the three bucks. Three Indians, Clark decided regretfully, would make a tame showing on the warpath, however much they might lend themselves to the spirit of the joke. He did not quite know how he was going to manage it, but he was hopeful still.