“Yo' speakum, me like to kill yo', mebbyso.” He spoke calmly, but none the less his words carried conviction of his sincerity. Within the wikiup Good Indian heard a smothered sob. He listened, heard it again, and looked challengingly at Peppajee. But Peppajee gave no sign that he either heard the sound or saw the challenge in Good Indian's eyes. “I Rachel's friend,” he said, speaking distinctly with his face half turned toward the wall of deerskin. “I want to tell Rachel what the sheriff said. I want to thank Rachel, and tell her I'm her friend. I don't want to bring trouble.” He stopped and listened, but there was no sound within. Peppajee eyed him comprehendingly, but there was no yielding in his brown, wrinkled face. “Yo' Rachel's frien', yo' pikeway,” he insisted doggedly. From under the wall of the wikiup close to Good Indian on the side farthest from Peppajee, a small, leafless branch of sage was thrust out, and waggled cautiously, scraping gently his hand. Good Indian's fingers closed upon it instinctively, and felt it slowly withdrawn until his hand was pressed against the hide wall. Then soft fingers touched his own, fluttered there timidly, and left in his palm a bit of paper, tightly folded. Good Indian closed his hand upon it, and stood up. “All right, I go,” he said calmly to Peppajee, and mounted. Peppajee looked at him stolidly, and said nothing. “One thing I would like to know.” Good Indian spoke again. “You don't care any more about the men taking Peaceful's ranch. Before they came, you watch all the time, you heap care. Why you no care any more? Why you no help?” Peppajee's mouth straightened in a grin of pure irony. “All time Baumberga try for ketchum ranch, me try for stoppum,” he retorted. “Yo' no b'lievum, Peacefu' no b'lievum. Me tellum yo' cloud sign, tellum yo' smoke sign, tellum yo' hear much bad talk for ketchum ranch. Yo' all time think for ketchum 'Vadnah squaw. No think for stoppum mens. Yo' all time let mens come, ketchum ranch. Yo' say fightum in co't. Cloud sign say me do notting. Yo' lettum come. Yo' mebbyso makum go. Me no care.” “I see. Well, maybe you're right.” He tightened the reins, and rode away, the tight little wad of paper still hidden in his palm. When he was quite out of sight from the camp and jogging leisurely down the hot trail, he unfolded it carefully and looked at it long. His face was grave and thoughtful when at last he tore it into tiny bits and gave it to the hot, desert wind. It was a pitiful little message, printed laboriously upon a scrap of brown wrapping--paper. It said simply: “God by i lov yo.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE MALICE OF A SQUAW