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where you go with our cattle?” interrupted the other one, evidently proud of his English.

      “I know what he said,” Luck snubbed this one bluntly. “I don’t know that they are your cattle. I don’t care. We’re using them to make motion pictures. Get outa the way so we can go on with our work.” Had he not spoiled several feet of film because of their coming he might have been more inclined to placate them. As it was, he did not welcome their interference, he did not like their looks, and their tones were to his temper as tow would be to a fire. Their half Mexican, half American dress irritated him; the interruption exasperated him. He was hungry and cold and keyed to a high nervous tension in his anxiety to make the most of his present big opportunity; he knew too well that he might not have another chance all winter, with the snow falling as if under his direction.

      “Get over there outa range of the camera!” he commanded them sharply, “then you can spout Mex. till you’re black in the face, for all I care. I’m busy.” To make himself absolutely understood he repeated the gist of his remarks in Spanish before he turned his back on them to finish his interrupted scene.

      Whereupon one swore in Spanish and the other in English, and they both declared that they would take their cattle right now, and reined their horses toward the shifting herd.

      “Hold on thar, Ramone Chavez!” shouted Applehead, striding forward. “Didn’t you hear the boss tell ye to git outa the way, both of yuh? Yuh better do it, now I’m tellin’ yuh, ‘cause if yuh don’t, they’s goin’ to be right smart of a runction around here! A good big share uh them thar cattle belongs to me. Don’t ye go messin’ in there amongst ‘em; you jest ride back outa the way uh that thar camery. Git!”

      At Applehead’s command they “got,” at least as far as the camp fire, where the bright shawl of Annie-Many-Ponies caught and held their interest. Annie-Many-Ponies, being a woman who had both youth and beauty and sensed instinctively the value of both, sent a slant-eyed glance and a half smile toward Ramone, who possessed more good looks and more English than his brother. The Happy Family eyed them with a tolerant indifference and moved aside with reluctant hospitality when Ramone dismounted shiveringly and came forward to warm his fingers over the blaze.

      “She’s cold day, you bet,” Ramone remarked ingratiatingly.

      “She ain’t what you could call hot,” Big Medicine conceded drily, since no one else showed any disposition to reply.

      “We don’t get much snow like this. You live in Albuquerque, perhaps?”

      There was really no excuse for snubbing these two, who had been well within their rights in making an investigation of this unheralded and unauthorized gathering of all the cattle on this range. Andy told Ramone where they were staying and where they came from, and let it go at that. The less Americanized brother dismounted and joined the group with a nod of greeting.

      “My brother Tomas,” announced Ramone, with a flash of white teeth, his eyes shifting unobtrusively toward Annie-Many-Ponies, who wore a secret, half-smiling air of provocative interest in him. “Not spik much English, my brother. Always stay too much at home. Me, I travel all over—Denver, Los Angeles, San Francisco. I ride in all contests—Pueblo, San Antonio—all over. Tomas, he go not so often. His head, all for business—making money—get rich some day. Me, I spend. My hand wide open always. Money slip fast.”

      “There’s plenty of us marked that way,” Weary made good-natured comment, turning so that his back might feel the heat of the fire.

      “Shunka Chistala!” murmured Annie-Many-Ponies in her soft contralto to the little black dog, and moved away to the mountain wagon, with the dog following close to her moccasined heels.

      Ramone looked after her with frank surprise at the strange words. “Not Spanish, then?” he ventured.

      “Indian,” the Native Son explained briefly, and added, perhaps for reasons of his own, “Sioux squaw.”

      Ramone very wisely let his curiosity rest there. He had a good excuse, for Luck, having finished work for the time being, came tramping over to the fire. At him Ramone glanced apologetically.

      “We borrow comfort from your fire, señor,” he said indifferently. “She’s bad day for riding.”

      Luck nodded, already ashamed of having lost his temper, yet not at the point of yielding openly to any overtures for peace. “Soon as we eat,” he said to Weary and those others who stood nearest, “I’ll have you cut out that poor cow and calf and drive ‘em down the flat here, so I can get that other scene I was telling you about.”

      “Wagalexa Conka, here is plenty hot coffee,” came a soft voice at his elbow, and Luck turned with a smile to take the steaming cup from the hand of Annie-Many-Ponies.

      The Native Son poured a cup and offered it to Tomas Chavez. “Quire cafe?” he asked.

      “Si, señor; Gracias.” Tomas smiled, and took the cup and bowed. Annie-Many-Ponies herself, with a sidelong glance at Luck to see if she might dare, carried the biggest cup of coffee to Ramone, and smiled demurely when he took it and looked into her eyes and thanked her.

      In this fashion did the social sky clear, even though the snow continued to drive against those who broke bread together out there in the dreary wastes, with the snow halfway to their knees. The Native Son, being half Spanish and knowing well the language of his father, talked a little with Tomas. Ramone made himself friendly with any one who would give him any attention. But Applehead scowled over his boiled-beef sandwich and his coffee, and kept his back turned upon the Chavez brothers, and would not talk at all. He eyed them sourly when they still loitered after the meal was over and the remains packed away in the box by Annie-Many-Ponies, and Luck had gone to work again with Bill Holmes at his heels and the boys helping to place the cattle to Luck’s liking.

      When the Chavez brothers finally did show symptoms of intending to leave, Luck beckoned to Tomas, whom he judged to be the leader. “Here,” he said in Spanish, when Tomas had come close to him. “I will pay you for using your cattle. When I am through, my boys will drive them back to the mesa again. For my picture I may need them again, señor. I promise you they will not be harmed.” And he charged in his expense book the sum, “to use of locations.”

      “Gracias,” said Tomas, and took the five dollars which Luck could ill afford to give, but which he felt would smooth materially the trail to their future work. Cattle he must have for his picture; cattle he would have at any cost,—but it would be well to have them with the consent of their owners. So the Chavez brothers rode away with smiles for their neighbors instead of threats, and with five dollars which had come to them like a gift.

      “Yuh might better uh kicked ‘em outa here without no softsoapin’ about it, now I’m tellin’ yuh!” Applehead grumbled when they were out of earshot. “You may know your business better’n what I do, but by thunder I wouldn’t uh give ‘em no five dollars—ner five cents. ‘S like feedin’ a stray dog; yuh won’t never git rid of ‘em now. They’ll be hangin’ around under yer feet—”

      “At that, I might have use for them,” Luck retorted unmoved. “They’re fine types.”

      “Types!” old Applehead exploded indignantly. “Types! They’re sneak-thieves and cutthroats ‘t I wouldn’t trust fur’s I could throw a bull by the tail. That’s what they be. Types,—my granny!”

Chapter Fourteen. “Plumb Spoiled, D’ Yuh Mean?”

       Table of Contents

      Luck came out of the dark room with the still, frozen, look of a trouble that has gone too deep for words. Annie-Many-Ponies eyed him aslant and straightway placed the hottest, juiciest piece of steak on his plate, and poured his coffee even before she poured for old Dave Wiswell, whom she favored as being an old acquaintance of the Pine Ridge country.

      Once when her father, old chief Big Turkey, had broken

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