For an instant Craig was silent, for an instant the full meaning of that confession failed in its appeal; then of a sudden it came over him in a flood of comprehension.  Very, very far away now, banished into remotest oblivion, was Pete Sweeney.  Into the same grave went any remnants of gratitude to the other man that chanced to remain.  Paramount, beckoning him on, one thought, one memory alone possessed his brain:  the recollection of that look the other had given him, that look he could never forget nor forgive.  “Since you have told me so much,” he challenged “you will probably have no objection to telling me the lady’s name.  Who is it to be?”

Silence fell upon them.  Far in the distance, so far that had the white man seen he would have thought it a star, a light had come into being.  Many a time before the little roan had made this journey.  Many a time he had seen that light emerge from the surface of earth.  To him it meant all that was good in life:  warmth, food, rest.  The tiny head shook impatiently, shifted sideways with an almost human question to his rider at the slowness of the pace, the delay.

“That light you see there straight ahead is in the ranch house,” digressed the Indian.  “It is four miles away.”

Again it was the warning, not a suggestion, but positive this time; and again it passed unheeded.

“You have forgotten to answer my question,” recalled Craig.

Swift as thought the Indian shifted in his seat, shifted half about; then as suddenly he remembered.

“No, I have not forgotten,” he refuted.  “You tell me you have already heard of Bess Landor.  It is she I am to marry.”

At last he had spoken, had given his confidence to this hostile stranger man; not vauntingly or challengingly, but simply as he had spoken his name.  Against his will he had done this thing, despite a reticence no one who did not understand Indian nature could appreciate.  Then at least it would not have taken a wise man to hold aloof.  Then at least common courtesy would have called a halt.  But Clayton Craig was neither wise nor courteous this night.  He was a great, weary, passionate child, whose pride had been stung, who but awaited an opportunity to retaliate.  And that opportunity had been vouchsafed.  Moreover, irony of fate, it came sugar coated.  Until this night he had been unconscious as a babe of racial prejudice.  Now of a sudden, it seemed a burning issue, and he its chosen champion.  His blood tingled at the thought; tingled to the tips of his well-manicured fingers.  His clean-shaven chin lifted in air until his lashes all but met.

“Do you mean to tell me,”—­his voice was a bit higher than normal and unnaturally tense,—­“do you mean to tell me that you, an Indian, are to marry a white girl—­and she my cousin by adoption?  Is this what you mean?”

Seconds passed.

“I have spoken,” said a low voice.  “I do not care to discuss the matter further.”