It was unconscious as a breath, unconscious as nature’s joy in springtime; yet in the light of after events, it stood out like a signal fire against the blackness of night, as the beginning of an enmity more deadly than death itself, that lasted into the grave and beyond.  For that silent, unwavering look set them each, the red man and the white, in their niche; placed them with an assurance that was final.  It was a questioning, analytic look, yet, unconcealed, it bore the tolerance of a strong man for a weak.  Had that look been a voice, it would have spoken one word, and that word was “cad.”

For a moment the two men sat so, unconscious of time, unconscious of place; then of a sudden, to both alike, the present returned—­and again that return was typical.  As deliberately as he had moved previously, the Indian faced back.  His left arm, free at his side, hung loose as before.  His right, that held the reins, lay motionless on the pony’s mane.  In no detail did he alter, nor in a muscle.  By his side, the white man stiffened, jerked without provocation at the cruel curb bit, until his horse halted uncertain; equally without provocation, sent the rowels of his long spurs deep into the sensitive flank, with a curse held the frightened beast down to a walk.  That was all, a secondary lapse, a burst of flowing, irresponsible passion like a puff of burning gunpowder, and it was over; yet it was enough.  In that second was told the tale of a human life.  In that and in the surreptitious sidelong glance following, that searched for an expression in the boyishly soft face of his companion.  But the Indian was looking straight before him, looking as one who has seen nothing, heard nothing; and, silent as before the interruption, they journeyed on.

A half hour slipped by, a period wherein the horses walked and galloped, and walked again, ere the white man forgot, ere the instinct of companionship, the necessity of conversation, urban-fostered, gained mastery.  Then as before, he looked at the other surreptitiously, through unconsciously narrowed lids.

“I haven’t yet asked your name?” he formalised baldly, curtly.

The guide showed no surprise, no consciousness of the long silence preceding.

“The Sioux call me Ma-wa-cha-sa:  the ranchers, How Landor.”

Craig dropped the reins over his saddle and fumbled in his pockets.

“The Indian word has a meaning, I presume?”

“Translated into English, it would be ‘the lost pappoose.’”

The eyebrows of the Easterner lifted; but he made no comment.

“You have been with my uncle, with Mr. Landor, I mean, long?”

“Since I can remember—­almost.”

The search within the checkered blouse ended.  The inquisitor produced a pipe and lit it.  It took three matches.

“My uncle never wrote me of that.  He told me once of adopting a girl.  Bess he called her, was it not?”

“Yes.”