Pete bristled--as much as a fat man could bristle on so hot a day. “Well, you said you wanted to flirt, and so I took it for granted you'd like--” Good Indian looked straight past the girl, and scowled at Pete. “Pete, you're an idiot ordinarily, but when you try to be smart you're absolutely insufferable. You're mentally incapable of recognizing the line of demarcation between legitimate persiflage and objectionable familiarity. An ignoramus of your particular class ought to confine his repartee to unqualified affirmation or the negative monosyllable.” Whereupon he pulled his hat more firmly upon his head, hunched his shoulders in disgust, remembered his manners, and bowed to Miss Georgie Howard, and stalked out, as straight of back as the Indian whose blanket he brushed, and who may have been, for all he knew, a blood relative of his. “I guess that ought to hold you for a while, Pete,” Miss Georgie approved under her breath, and stared after Grant curiously. “'You're mentally incapable of recognizing the line of demarcation between legitimate persiflage and objectionable familiarity.' I'll bet two bits you don't know what that means, Pete; but it hits you off exactly. Who is this Mr. Imsen?” She got no reply to that. Indeed, she did not wait for a reply. Outside, things were happening--and, since Miss Georgie was dying of dullness, she hailed the disturbance as a Heaven-sent blessing, and ran to see what was going on. Briefly, Grant had inadvertently stepped on a sleeping dog's paw--a dog of the mongrel breed which infests Indian camps, and which had attached itself to the blanketed buck inside. The dog awoke with a yelp, saw that it was a stranger who had perpetrated the outrage, and straightway fastened its teeth in the leg of Grant's trousers. Grant kicked it loose, and when it came at him again, he swore vengeance and mounted his horse in haste. He did not say a word. He even smiled while he uncoiled his rope, widened the loop, and, while the dog was circling warily and watching for another chance at him, dropped the loop neatly over its front quarters, and drew it tight. Saunders, a weak-lunged, bandy-legged individual, who was officially a general chore man for Pete, but who did little except lie in the shade, reading novels or gossiping, awoke then, and, having a reputation for tender-heartedness, waved his arms and called aloud in the name of peace. “Turn him loose, I tell yuh! A helpless critter like that--you oughta be ashamed--abusin' dumb animals that can't fight back!” “Oh, can't he?” Grant laughed grimly. “You turn that dog loose!” Saunders became vehement, and paid the penalty of a paroxysm of coughing. “You go to the devil. If you were an able-bodied man, I'd get you, too--just to have a pair of you. Yelping, snapping curs, both of you.” He played the dog as a fisherman plays a trout.