I argued half the night; but the more I talked the more I seen that Mike was stuck to be a renegade.  It’s a fact.  If he hadn’t of been a nice kid I’d of cut his hobbles and let him go; but—­pshaw!  Mike Butters could run too fast to be wasted among savages, and, besides, it’s a terrible thing for a white man to marry an Injun.  The red never dies out in the woman, but the white in the man always changes into a dirty, muddy red.  I laid awake a long while tryin’ to figger out a way to block his game, but the only thing I could think of was to tie him up and wear out a cinch on him.  Just as I was dozin’ off I had an idy.  I didn’t like it much at first; I had to swaller hard to down it, but the more I studied it the better it looked, so for fear I’d weaken I rolled over and went to sleep.

Mike was in earnest, and so was the girl; that much I found out the next day.  And she must of learned him enough Navajo to propose marriage with, and he must of learned her enough English to say “yes,” for she took possession of our camp and begun to order me around.  First thing she lugged our Navajo blankets to the creek, washed ’em, then spread ’em over some bushes and beat ’em with a stick until they were as clean and soft as thistle-down.  I’ll admit she made a pleasant picture against the bright colors of them blankets, and I couldn’t altogether blame Mike for losin’ his head.  He’d lost it, all right.  Every time she looked at him out of them big black eyes he got as wabbly as clabber.  It was plumb disgustin’.

That evenin’ he give her a guitar lesson.  Now Mike himself was a sad musician, and the sound of him fandangoin’ uncertainly up and down the fretful spine of that instrument was a tribulation I’d put up with on account of friendship, pure and simple, but when that discord-lovin’ lady cliff-dweller set all evenin’ in our tent and scraped snake-dances out of them catguts with a fish-bone, I pulled my freight and laid out in the moonlight with the dogs.

Mike’s infatuation served one purpose, though; he spent so much time with the squab that it give me an opportunity to work out my scheme.  That guitar lesson showed me that vig’rous measures was necessary, so I dug up a file, a shoemaker’s needle and some waxed thread, all of which we had in our kit.

On the fourth morning there was a stir in the camp, and we knew that the courier had got back with his runner.  Pretty soon the whole village stormed up to our tent in a body.

“Let’s go out and look him over,” I said.

“What’s the use of lookin’ at him?” Mike inquired.  “All Injuns look alike—­except one.”