“I’d like to cut Jim out myself,” spoke up Celluloid Bill. “But Lord! there ain’t no chance! Yo’ can’t mash with that there gal! One day she beat me in a hoss race on th’ upper trail, an’ she bested me with th’ rope. I kinda hinted splicin’ lariats. I got no furder! She went in th’ air like a wil’ bronk at th’ fust cinchin’. Jim’s th’ main guy an’ it must be ’count his shade bein’ a little darker’n mine. Anyhow he’s there like a duck an’ th’ maverick who beats him is got to be a thorybred. But somebody’ll lan’ her! When them there gals begin talkin’ of not lovin’ an’ a dyin’ ol’ maids, yo’ lookout! There’s a sho’ sign of a weddin’ in th’ air. Come now, Jim! Own up! When’s th’ day? We want get th’ fiddlers an’ weddin’ presents ready. Yo’ can ’spect silver plates an’ them there cut glass thin’s costin’ nearly a month’s wages to buy.
“Bob,” he continued, turning to a companion at his side, “yo’ ’member time we batched?” Bob’s answer was a grunt. “Time th’ folks was gone an’ yo’ cooked for us? When yo’ used a little glass dish for soap after we busted t’other one; an’ how mad Mrs. Carter was when she came home an’ foun’ us a usin’ it? She said as it cost seven kales an’ we didn’t b’lieve it. But ’twas true! Them there thin’s cost like hell, but it’s th’ kin’ I’m goin’ buy Jim when he hitches up. But he won’t tell! Maybe it’s goin’ be a s’prise, ain’t it Jim?”
Jim was silent. He only wished that it could be true. Celluloid continued, turning again to his second companion:
“Bob, what’s been yo’ ’sperience? ’Fess up an’ tell what transmised when yo’ an’ her was a chasin’ mavericks on th’ big flat las’ spring? What did that there gal say when yo’ went kinda easy talkin’ on her? No use sayin’ yo’ didn’t, ’cause it was a chance what no man’d pass up askin’ what was a battin’ on his min’. Yo’ve been through th’ fire same as them there three Hebo Phillistiners in th’ furnace, only under differ’nt ’vironments.”
“Aw! come off an’ quitcher rakin’ up ol’ trouble what’s mos’ forgot,” responded Bob in a dragging moan. “I hater think of that there time once more; I hater sleep an’ dream it all over tonight.”
“Celluloid Bill’s” correct name was William Cameron. A spare built, light complexioned half-blood Cheyenne, he got his range sobriquet wearing a white celluloid collar when he first came to the ranch. Of a talkative sort and fond of mischief, he was leader in most of the H-B escapades.
Robert Morgan, known as “Silent Bob,” was a tall, spare built, even-tempered man of thirty, who hailed from the mountain regions of West Virginia. Proud of his southern blood, he ever insisted that he was a “Virginian” proper; and that the new State was not a legitimate child of the Union, since it was born in the throes of war. He lamented the division of the “Old Dominion,” and refused to recognize but the one State. His voice slow and drawling, it seemed an effort for him to talk. But even at that he was a general favorite with the riders throughout the range. True as steel, he would fight for a friend.
Long after the boys were in dreamland, Jim tossed on his hard bunk. He pondered about the future, which had never before troubled him. He recalled that ever since Cogewea came to the ranch, life seemed to owe him something. Sometimes he imagined that she cared for him, but the next moment his hopes would be dashed. He could not understand the girl. She was a strange medley of amiable sunshine and shadowy indifference; insusceptible alike to chiding or cajolery.
Thus Jim lay pondering, till the little clock on the shelf seemed to say: “Cogewea! Cogewea! Cogewea!” He covered his head with his blankets to shut out the pleasingly wakeful sound. He tried not to think of her; to sleep, but somnolence kept persistently aloof. Amid the darkness he imagined her brilliant eyes ever before him.
The “best rider of the Flathead” was in love.
Jim did not know when he fell asleep. It must have been towards morning, for seemingly he had scarce closed his eyes, when he felt Celluloid shaking him to get up for breakfast.
IV
Cogewea Hires the Tenderfoot
Thus his name became a by-word
Hiawatha
And a jest among the people;
The sun was bursting over the mountains, portending a cloudless day. Cogewea stood at the gate waiting for Silent Bob to drive up with the bays, Prince and Jerry. They were going to Polson, to meet the noon steamer, which was expected to bring her aged grandmother and her sister Mary. She was holding the reins of Wanawish. The hack would be crowded on the return trip, so she had decided to ride the spirited steed for the first time since the encounter with the rattler. The horse had had a long rest and no one but Jim seemed to know why. He saw her as he was passing and there was a note of concern in his voice as he hailed:
“Hell‑o! Sis. Goin’ to ride Wanawish?”
“Why shouldn’t I ride my own horse?”
“Oh! I—I thought—Let me ride him first.”
“You mind your own business!” she snapped.
“Aw! come now, little squaw! You know that there hoss—”
“Is too gentle for the ‘best rider of the Flathead’ to trifle with,” she laughed derisively.
Further remonstrance on Jim’s part was prevented by Carter, who approached from the barn and said:
“I wish, Cogewea, that while you are in town you would see if
