“Hold on! Bill! You’re going too far.”
Jim had, at the same time, caught the “Geezar” in an iron grapple and the men were snapped apart. Bill dropped his gun into its holster, while both men were stammering and swearing furiously. Some of the boys, discerning the joke, began laughing at the two unfortunates. Rodeo Jack and Leather Slim, the latter from a distant part of the range and a late recruit to the H-B outfit, were rolling on the ground, yelling with delight. Frenchy was doubled with merriment. Celluloid Bill glared at the crowd, while the “Geezar” sulked in rage.
“What are you fellows fighting about?” questioned Carter.
“Th-that t-there c-cuss m-mo-mocked my t-ta-talk.”
The real truth struck the “Geezar” who broke in:
“W‑hy I th-thought yo’ w-was a m-mockin’ m-me in my t-talk.”
The pines rang with the roar of laughter that went up from a score of throats. Carter, holding his aching sides, managed to explain to Bill that the “Geezar” stammered slightly, and that it was not assumed as he had supposed. Even Silent Bob was constrained to smile, as he lolled by the fire. Turning to Bill, he moaned audibly:
“I’d hater see yo’ kill that there po’ feller; I’d hater help hang yo’ for bustin uv his haid.”
The two late belligerents looked at each other sheepishly. Bill, with the second joke of the evening on him, extended his palm:
“Put ’er there! ol’ pard! an’ shake on it. We’ll call it square.”
The “Geezar” took the proffered hand and shook it heartily, as he said:
“Wh-why! at f-first, p-pard, I t-thought yo’ was m-mockin’ me.”
“An’ I thought yo’ was a mockin’ me in my talk. That’s why I got mad.”
The two again shook hands, joining in the hilarity at their expense. Later, the “Geezar” rode away and the camp quieted down, the boys smoking or playing cards by the fire light.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” mused Bill after remaining in deep thought for some time. “Now if I’d a hit that there pore feller’s skull an’ a busted it, I’d a been hung to a tree an’ two good men, best in th’ country, a been gone for nothin’. Guess I’ll have to jug my temper. Don’t pay havin’ it get ’way with a feller.”
At length, each rider sought the comfort of his blankets and soon all—save one—was in slumberland. Jim could not sleep. The three weeks from Cogewea had seemed interminable and he was glad that only a few more hours intervened until he would be with her again. Long he lay, pondering. Had she drifted farther from him during their separation? Had the hated tenderfoot, taking advantage of the situation, pressed his suit to a successful termination? If so, and he proved worthy—was true and kind to her—then Jim would say no more. He would accept his disappointment without complaint. But if, as he suspected, the Easterner was playing a false hand, then he would do well to “pull his freight” before complications set in; for should the little gal suffer wrong because of him, he would surely kill him. He would then go away and try forget all about the wild beauty with the bewitching eyes.
Finally he fell asleep and it seemed that the next moment Bill kicked him with the admonition:
“Hey! ol’ skate! Oats is a waitin’. Get on yo’ nose bag while th’ coffee’s hot. Nice way for a foreman to be sleepin’ when so clos’ home an’ his gal a wearyin’ her eyes lookin’ for him. Not s’prised if that there tenderfoot jaybird ain’t cap’tred her; even if he can’t ride a cayuse without breakin’ his arm. Don’t allers ’quire th’ best rider of th’ Flathead to carry off a prize.”
Celluloid Bill turned away, chuckling, as Jim got up without a word. The sun, a glowing orb, was bursting over the distant Rockies, flooding the land with warmth and gladness. But to the foreman, over it all there seemed to loom an ominous shadow.
XXII
Back to the Ranch
It looks a far and fearful way—
Badger Clark
The trail from Now to Then—
But time is telescoped today,
A hundred years in ten.
Cogewea stood on the veranda watching the dust-column approaching from the southeast. She was glad, in some ways, that the boys were coming home. The story of Green-blanket Feet had impressed her deeply. The tribal marriage! Why had Densmore insisted so strongly on this old rite; he a man of education and wealth with all the advantages of refined society? Jim, the rough, rugged breed of the range, had never intimated this form of wedlock. While it was true that she had spoken in defense of this ancient custom, it was in comparison with the manifest abuses of the nuptial relations as governed by the laws of the white man. She had not supposed that he would take her so seriously and with self-application. But perhaps things would adjust themselves. In the meantime the inevitable must be met—Jim—and the coming crisis.
But, if Cogewea was restless, Densmore was doubly so. He was disappointed and half angry. The three weeks had passed during which time he had had a clear field. Retrospectively, what had he accomplished in the heart-conquest of this wildly fascinating girl of the range? Inscrutable as the Sphinx, he had failed to fathom her. At times he was led to believe that she cared for him and was willing to concede the Indian marriage; but when pressed for a decision, she invariably “shied” and seemed frightened. All his patient tolerance of her heathen philosophy and her bitter arraignment of a potent Government Bureau, had been for naught. His gifts of game and fish had also failed to win the friendship of the old grandmother. Baffled, he now saw the final overthrow
