“For me, I’d wait here till I was old folks,” I said.  “I don’t aim to leave these simple savages nothin’.  Nothin’ at all, but a lot of idle regrets.”

Well, sir, there was a heap of excitement in that camp for the next three days.  All them Injuns done, was to come and look at Mike and feel of his legs and argue with one another.  The first night after the race Mike tuned up his guitar, and later on I heard snatches of the “Spanish Fandango” stealin’ up from the river bank.  I knew what was on; I knew without lookin’ that the old chief’s girl was right there beside him, huggin’ her knees and listenin’ with both ears.  I didn’t like to think about it, for she was a nice little yearlin’, and it looked to me like Mike was up to his usual devilment.  Seemed like a low-down trick to play on an injunoo like her, and the more I studied it the warmer I got.  It was a wonderful night; the moonlight drenched the valley, and there was the smell of camp-fires and horses over everything—­just the sort of a night for a guitar, just the sort of a night to make your blood run hot and to draw you out into the glitter and make you race with your shadow.

When Mike moseyed in, along about ten o’clock, he was plumb loco; the moon-madness was on him strong.  His eyes was as bright as silver coins, and his voice had a queer ring to it.

“What a night!” said he.  “And what a life this is Lord!  I’m tired of pot-huntin’.  I’ve trimmed suckers till I’m weary; I’ve toted a gold brick in my pocket till my clothes bag.  I’m sick of it.  I’m goin’ to beat this Injun champeen, take my half of our winnin’s, sell off the runty ones, and settle down.”

“Where do you aim to settle?” I inquired.

“Oh, anywhere hereabouts.  These are good people, and I like ’em.”

“You mean you’re goin’ to turn out with the Injuns?” I inquired, with my mouth open.  Mike had led so sudden that he had me over the ropes.

“I’m goin’ to do that very little thing,” he declared.  “I dunno how to talk much Navajo, but I’m learnin’ fast, and she got my meanin’.  We understand each other, and we’ll do better as time goes on.  She calls me ‘Emmike’!  Sweet, ain’t it?” He heaved a sigh, then he gargled a laugh that sounded like boilin’ mush.  “It ain’t often a feller like me gets a swell little dame that worships him.  Horses, guns, camp-fires!  Can you beat it?”

“If that squaw had a soft palate or a nose like a eeclair, you wouldn’t be so keen for this simple life,” I told him.  “She has stirred up your wickedness, Mike, and you’ve gone nutty.  You’re moon-crazy, that’s all.  You cut it out.”