At this freedom, the tenderfoot had nearly toppled from his seat with astonishment. He had yet to learn the ways of a plain’s cowgirl. An introduction on the range might be in keeping among the more conventional whites, but at the H-B such formality was unknown. The Easterner’s embarrassment passed instantly and tipping his hat, he answered:
“I am glad that you take an interest in the welfare of a stranger, for our former meeting was of the most casual; Miss—”
“Aw! shake that miss! Just call me every day Cogewea.”
“You certainly have a very romantic name, but I’m not sure that I can speak it.”
“Co‑ge‑wea. Cogewea. It’s simple.”
Densmore, after many attempts, succeeded in pronouncing the Indian cognomen, and then asked for her surname. The girl’s black eyes twinkled, as she answered amusedly:
“I never mentioned any second name. All my friends call me Cogewea, and that is what you will call me if you want to be a pal of mine. It means chipmunk in our language.”
“I think it suits you just splendidly; Miss—”
“Aw! drop that Miss! It’s Cogewea or nothing. You said that you could ride, Mr. Densmore?”
“Y‑e‑s! Please call me just plain Alfred; for I prefer it. I will try to master that woodland name of yours.”
“Alright! But say!” was the rather anxious query. “Can you ride a genuine bronc?”
“W‑hy—a—yes,” was the stammered reply. The tenderfoot supposed “bronc” to be but a western phrase for donkey.
“Where did you ride?”
“I dropped down here from Canada,” was the careless reply.
Cogewea’s intentions were, when questioning him, to warn him against the outlaw which she knew would be saddled for him. But when he said that he could ride a bronc and that he came from Canada, she almost laughed outright. Somehow she now wished that he could ride. How it would surprise John and the boys if he vied with them. She knew that some very good riders came from Canada, but she did not dream that he was directly from eastern Ontario. She supposed that he was from British Columbia.
While Cogewea and the Easterner were thus conversing, the boys were planning sport at the expense of the tenderfoot. Jim’s swarthy face darkened a shade when he saw the two perched on the fence engaged in friendly conversation. He was unconsciously biting his scanty mustache. Something in his breast seemed to hurt. He thought that Cogewea was taking too much interest in the stranger and he would humiliate him.
Ignoring the stirrup, the foreman seized the saddle horn from the right—Indians invariably mount from the right side—and bounded gracefully into the saddle. Touching the heavy silver mounted spurs to his horse’s flanks, the animal trained, went into the air, bucking for the distance of a hundred yards and then settled into a smooth lope; ascending the slope to the upper end of the wing where the boys were cutting out some of the wild horses to be driven into the main corral.
Densmore looked on with surprise at this exhibition. He wondered if that was what they called a “bronc” instead of a donkey. If so, the performance seemed easy. Jim was a cool and graceful rider and to the Easterner the task of remaining in the saddle did not appear one of difficulty.
“Say boys!” Jim spoke in an undertone, “we’re goin’ to have a little circus of our own. We’ll saddle Croppy for that there swell guy. White shirts and stand-up collars don’t go on this here ranch. We’ll have fun to the finish. He’ll be lucky if he gets off with a skinned nose and elbows. His high bridge will be scratched some. We’ll see some saddle chokin’, eh! pardner?” turning to Silent Bob to second him in his purpose. The Virginian dragged:
“I kinder hater see the pore feller throwed; I hater dig a six-foot grave this hot weather.”
“We’ll help yo’ dig it,” volunteered Celluloid Bill.
“The feller said he could ride,” interrupted Rodeo Jack. “I asked him an’ he said with that there polished manner of his’n: ‘Why cer‑tain‑ly!’ An’ he comes from that there King George country an’ maybe he has a little s’prise up his sleeve for us bronc twisters.”
“Hell! We’ll chance it,” rejoined Jim. “No rider ever wears a stiff caddy; and Croppy hates a plug-hat worse nor pizen. John said to give him an old skate to ride, but he ain’t a goin’ to loco our little show. He’s gone ’cross the river in a skiff to see that there geezer over there.” Jim waved his arm towards the opposite side of the Pend d’Oreille, where another stockman lived.
The horses were driven into the main corral. They were of every size and color, from common cayuse to thoroughbreds. The poor frightened animals trampled one another unmercifully; their eyes wild with fright. Two colts were killed by the mad pounding hoofs circling the enclosure. Jim rode into the center of the corral. He swung his rawhide rope and shot it over the head of Croppy, the far famed Flathead outlaw that very few riders dared mount.
The horse reared, plunging and fighting hard; but the experienced cowpuncher soon had him closely “snubbed” to his saddle horn. The other boys hurrying to his aid, the frenzied animal was soon blindfolded.
Cogewea now decided to stop them from saddling the horse, but before she reached them, they were putting the last hitch to the cinch. She had hesitated too long. The stranger had touched a cord in her womanly heart and she half repented the part she had taken in the game. But it was now too late. Densmore was donning chaps and spurs proffered by Celluloid Bill. It would be better for the tenderfoot to risk death in the saddle than to face the constant taunts which he would be compelled to endure should he prove a quitter. Jim’s voice was rather derisive as he called.
“Hey there! pardner. Here’s your hoss. Better come scratch this here feller.”
The “pardner” hesitated. He felt unusually shaky. Cogewea with her quick eye noticed
