Good Indian, looking at him, felt instinctively that a part, at least, of the man's nature was nakedly revealed to him then. It seemed scarcely fair to read the lust of him and the utter abandonment to the hazard of the game. Pitiless he looked, with clenched teeth just showing between the loose lips drawn back in a grin that was half-snarl, half-involuntary contraction of muscles sympathetically tense. That was when a shimmering thing slithered up, snapped at the fly, and flashed away to the tune of singing reel and the dance of the swaying rod. The man grew suddenly cruel and crafty and full of lust; and Good Indian, watching him, was conscious of an inward shudder of repulsion. He had fished all his life--had Good Indian--and had found joy in the sport. And here was he inwardly condemning a sportsman who stood self-revealed, repelling, hateful; a man who gloated over the struggle of something alive and at his mercy; to whom sport meant power indulged with impunity. Good Indian did not try to put the thing in words, but he felt it nevertheless. “Brute!” he muttered aloud, his face eloquent of cold disgust. At that moment Baumberger drew the tired fish gently into the shallows, swung him deftly upon the rocks, and laid hold of him greedily. “Ain't he a beaut?” he cried, in his wheezy chuckle. “Wait a minute while I weigh him. He'll go over a pound, I'll bet money on it.” Gloatingly he held it in his hands, removed the hook, and inserted under the gills the larger one of the little scales he carried inside his basket. “Pound and four ounces,” he announced, and slid the fish into his basket. He was the ordinary, good-natured, gross Baumberger now. He reached for his pipe, placed it in his mouth, and held out a hand to Good Indian for a match. “Say, young fella, have you got any stand-in with your noble red brothers?” he asked, after he had sucked life into the charred tobacco. “Cousins twice or three times removed, you mean,” said Good Indian coldly, too proud and too lately repelled to meet the man on friendly ground. “Why do you ask?” Baumberger eyed him speculatively while he smoked, and chuckled to himself. “One of 'em--never mind placing him on his own p'ticular limb of the family tree--has been doggin' me all morning,” he said at last, and waved a fishy hand toward the bluff which towered high above them. “Saw him when I was comin' up, about sunrise, pokin' along behind me in the sagebrush. Didn't think anything of that--thought maybe he was hunting or going fishing--but he's been sneakin' around behind me ever since. I don't reckon he's after my scalp--not enough hair to pay--but I'd like to know what the dickens he does mean.” “Nothing probably,” Good Indian told him shortly, his eyes nevertheless searching the rocks for a sight of the watcher.