Watching him in astonishment, Gideon saw that he had singled out the Indian chief, and was riding down upon him. He saw the lariat shoot out from the uplifted hand like a wriggling snake. The wide loop opened like a wheel, grew suddenly tense and smaller. Then it dropped clean over Broken Feather's head and shoulders, and in an instant the chief's two arms were pinioned to his sides.
CHAPTER II
THE UNIFORM OF THE PLAINS
It was some five hours later when Gideon Birkenshaw, Abe Harum, and Isa Blagg returned to the camp at Sweetwater Bridge. After a sharp fight in the gulch, they had recovered the larger number of their stolen ponies, and the rest of their company were still out, rounding-up others abandoned by their captors.
Greatly to Gideon's annoyance, his precious Arab mare had not yet been restored to him, and he had no knowledge of what had happened to the Indian chief.
Leaving Abe and Isa to corral the horses, Gideon dismounted at the side of the trail and walked slowly and wearily up the woodland path to his homestead.
Abreast of the well in front of the veranda he came to an abrupt halt, staring with amazed eyes at a great bay horse that was tethered to the tie post. Young Rube had removed the saddle and was in the act of spreading a blanket over the animal's perspiring body.
"Where in thunder did that hoss come from?" Gideon demanded to know.
"A real beauty, ain't he?" said Rube. "A thoroughbred, sure. An' look at the saddle and bridle. Ain't they just wonderful?"
"It's the identical hoss that I seen in One Tree Gulch only a few hours ago," declared Gideon. "Thar's no mistakin' it."
"It's the same as I seen racin' down the trail just before the Indians came along," added Rube.
"But who brought it? Who rid it?" Gideon asked. "Who does it belong to?"
"Dunno," Rube answered, shaking his head in perplexity. "Can't make him out nohow. Never seen him before. He's just a stranger. A stranger, an' yet he seems ter know his way 'bout this yer camp most as well as I do meself. He's in the house right now, jawin' with mother. Seems he kinder knows her."
"Knows her? Knows your mother? Knows Mee-Mee? I'm amazed! Your mother ain't bin outer this yer camp, not for years an' years. How c'n any stranger know her? What's the man's name? Where does he come from?"
"Dunno, Boss; dunno." Rube shrugged his shoulders. "Guess th' best way fer you ter straighten out all them things is to step indoors an' 'vestigate."
Gideon straightened the wide rim of his hat, arranged his scarf, and tightened his belt. The horse's furnishings told him that the stranger was not a low-down prairie loafer. He strode to the veranda steps, and, crossing to the open door, looked furtively within the living-room.
Mee-Mee, Rube's Redskin mother, stood with her back to the cooking-stove, stirring a cup of steaming coffee as she smiled at the stranger, talking to him in the Pawnee tongue, which Gideon did not understand. The stranger sat on the edge of the table, facing her, boyishly swinging a loose leg. He took the proffered cup of coffee and rested it beside him on the table, almost touching his revolver.
Gideon noticed that the ivory butt of the revolver, projecting from its holster, was silver-mounted. He also noticed that the man's leather belt was new and brightly polished, that his red shirt was of very fine flannel, and his spotted blue scarf of fine soft silk. His short hair was black, and his complexion as dark as that of an Italian.
The stranger did not look round until Gideon was close up to him. Then he stood up from the table and turned.
"Well, Gid, old man," he said very quietly, "d'ye know me?"
Gideon drew back, staring into the stranger's handsome, clean-shaven face, trying to recognize it. His visitor smiled, showing his even white teeth. Then, dropping his hat on the floor, Gideon leapt forward with eager, outstretched hands.
"Kiddie!" he cried. "Kiddie!—you—back here! Here to th' old shack?"
Kiddie took the old man's head tenderly between his hands, drew it to him, and kissed the straggling grey hairs.
"Yes, Gid," he said. "It's me, sure; come back to the old shack and the old man—back like a wild coyote to its lair among the rocks."
"And it was you, then, as came gallopin' along the trail this mornin', time the Injuns crept up to the corral? It was you as fired all them shots from behind the willows? You that raced like mad inter One Tree Gulch an' dropped your lariat over Broken Feather? Oh, Kiddie, Kiddie, I might ha' known—I might ha' known. But I never thought, never guessed it c'd be you. My! how you've growed! how you've—improved! And you ain't wearin' your earl's coronet, nor your robe trimmed round with ermine skins? You've come just like one of ourselves."
"Yes," Kiddie laughed—"in the uniform of the plains, like a simple frontier scout, leaving all the useless fashionable fixings behind me in England."
"Didn't yer like it, then?" Gideon questioned. "Didn't yer cotton to it, bein' a English nobleman with a pile o' dollars an' vast estates? Didn't yer find that seat in the House of Lords altogether comfortable?"
Kiddie sipped at the cup of coffee.
"I never even entered the House of Lords," he explained. "It wasn't really necessary. As to my being an English nobleman—well, that was all right; nobody ever objected; everybody was tremendously kind and considerate. But somehow I didn't exactly cotton to it, Gid. I was never at my ease, except when out riding, or shooting, or yachting. You see, the blood of the wilds is in my veins. I didn't like the whirl and gaiety and excitement of London. It seemed somehow hollow and insincere. I yearned for the freedom and simplicity of life on the prairies; couldn't put myself on a level with men who had been to public schools and universities, or talk with elegant ladies who were maybe criticizing the way I ate and spoke and moved. I even felt myself inferior to my own valet, who addressed me as 'your lordship' while teaching me the proper way to wear my fine clothes."
"Ah!" sighed Gideon. "In them circumstances nat'rally you occasion'lly thought of the old trail here, an' of me an' the boys, eh?"
"Always," Kiddie answered him. "Always in the social rush of London I heard the dear old tune of the Sweetwater River, the musical murmur of the pine trees, and all the familiar voices of the wilds, and they for ever called to me, 'Kiddie, Kiddie, come back, come back! This is the life for you, not that.' And so, old man, I've come back."
"And haven't delayed none in droppin' inter your old ways," added Gideon. "Hadn't been back in camp ten minutes 'fore you was at your old graft of shootin' law-breakin' Injuns."
"Did you recover your ponies?" Kiddie asked.
"Some," Gideon nodded. "But not the Arab mare—the best of the bunch. She's took."
"Oh, but the Arab is all right," smiled Kiddie. "You'll find her in the old stable back of the timber stack."
"Eh? You captured her? Then what about Broken Feather—the Injun that rode her? Did he give you the slip, or——?"
"Oh, he's captured, too," said Kiddie. "I towed him along in the loop of my lariat, and fixed him up in one of your lean-to sheds. He's in need of some sticking plaster for a cut on his leg. If you'll come along, we'll go and attend to him, while Mee-Mee gets ready the breakfast."
They went out to the shed. Kiddie loosened the padlock, flung open the door and looked within. The place was empty. Broken Feather had escaped.
CHAPTER