“Where is this ranch?” the “verdant” questioned delightedly. “I want to see your boss.”
“Outen some ways on th’ reservation. But yo’ can see an’ confab th’ boss right here.”
“Where?” and the Easterner glanced eagerly about. “I do not see him.”
“Naw! … him? Who said yo’ could?”
“Why! you did!”
“Yo’ have another guess a comin’, stranger. I said yo’ could see th’ boss an’ yo’ can if yo’ ain’t blin’. Aw! Hell! I hater be aller time a speelin’; I hater get so tired—Say! Cogewea!” he called as the group of three approached, “this here’s a feller what wants to go out on a ranch; an’ bein’ as yo’ is already good as fo’man, yo’ better take him.”
Cogewea’s cheeks burned at the reference to “foreman.” She had not supposed that Bob had overheard the morning conversation at the gate. Smothering her confusion, she turned and addressed the stranger, noting his general appearance.
“Are you wanting work?”
“W-h! yes!” he stammered in surprise, lifting his hat politely. “I had thought of farm employment, but since the gentleman has explained the difference existing between farm and ranch, I think that I would be pleased with the latter.”
Cogewea glanced at Bob, who winked slyly. The old spirit of mischief took possession of her, as she again turned to the applicant:
“Can you ride?”
“Er-yes!” he replied with embarrassment, having in mind his childhood days when he rode the plow team to and from the field in central New York.
“All right! forty per, grub and bunk. You can ‘bump’ out on the ‘chuck.’ We are going to start now.”
With this, Cogewea handed her aged kinswoman into the rear seat with Mary, and turned to mount Wanawish standing a few feet away.
“Throw yo’ grip under th’ seat an’ climb up an’ roost with me,” drawled Bob, with foot on the brakebar.
The stranger did as directed and they were off. The drive home was uneventful. Wanawish seemingly had forgotten his escapade of a few weeks previous, and cantered contentedly in the wake of the hack. The Easterner, after a fruitless endeavor to draw Bob into conversation, subsided; and save for the occasional low monotone colloquy carried on by the Indian women in their native tongue, the journey was made in silence.
V
The Tenderfoot’s Bronco Riding
The trail’s a lane! the trail’s a lane!
Badger Clark
How comes it, pard of mine?
Within a day it slipped away
And hardly left a sign;
The morning repast was over before John Carter could find opportunity to speak with Cogewea about having employed Alfred Densmore, the “tenderfoot.” The boys were at the barn, saddling their mounts preparatory to chasing the horses from the “wings” into the main corral. Carter still lingered at the house. The girl knew all too well what was brewing and had avoided meeting him the evening before. They met on the veranda and she was cornered. His clean shaven face appeared unusually stern as he spoke:
“Cogewea! you should have known better than to hire that tenderfoot. I wish that I had gone myself. It is just like a woman anyway! When you ask them to do anything of a business nature they always make a mess of it. Are you ever going to grow up? Will you ever be a woman … a full fledged woman of mature judgment … and quit these baby ways of yours? Will you ever cease your mischievous and annoying pranks?”
“Why John!” she exclaimed with well feigned surprise. “You talk just as if I were an irresponsible; a mere infant. I notice that I am as tall as my honored brother-in-law; and so far as growing up is concerned, I don’t believe in becoming old. Only once are we young. Bask in the morning sun while the dew still sparkles, is my philosophy.”
“Yes! that is right, too; but frivolity and business can not be ridden with the same saddle. You should have procured someone who knows something about breaking broncs. Why! that fellow will commit suicide rangling those wild horses. I simply leave the entire deal in your hands. Should he happen to kill himself, you will be held responsible.”
“Oh! quit your jawin’. Let’s call it square and smoke the peace pipe.”
“I am willing, but never let it happen again. I wish now that I had asked Bob. He would have done better. What will I do with a crippled man or a dead one? I’ll have the expense of burying the guy.”
“I will foot the bills and give you a mortgage on my allotment. Besides,” she continued mockingly, “I only acted within my rights as your prospective foreman.”
Carter left the veranda partly placated. He could not remain angry with his jocund sister-in-law.
Cogewea stood watching Bill and Bob drive the horses into the main corral. Jim was still at the barn door brushing his horse’s legs. He lingered thinking that she would come to him as of old; but instead, she went directly to the corral, where Densmore sat on the fence absentmindedly whittling a small stick, smooth and round. He was waiting to ride his first horse. He was hardly satisfied with his surroundings. Where were those picturesque Indians that he was promised to meet? Instead, he had been lured into a nest of half bloods, whom he had always understood to be the inferior degenerates of two races. He could not fathom the forward girl with the musical, though unpronounceable name. What was she? He had had much to do with women and was a reader of character, but this one was unfathomable. What would his refined mother and sisters say, could they see him in his present surroundings?
A slight rustle at his side caused him to turn. There stood the forward girl on the third rail from the bottom, her brown arms over the top rail.
“You look lonesome, Mr. Densmore,” she said without formality, “and I thought to come and have
