“Got lost. Pretty near cashed in. Reckon I would have ef a Siwash hadn’t come along an’ give me some water. He told me how to reach your ranch—that was nigh onto three weeks ago—then I run into a scoutin’ party of reg’lars from the post an’ they took me in with ’em. I ben in the hospital ever since. Worse off’n I thought I was I reckon.” “Three weeks ago?” mused Billings. “You was tarnation lucky that Siwash wasn’t no Cheeracow. Thet was jest about when they was goin’ out.” “Thet’s what gets me,” said the youth, “he _was_ a Cheeracow. He told me he was, an’ not only that, but he was painted up all right enough for the warpath.” “I reckon you must hev had a touch of fever right then,” said Billings, skeptically. The other laughed. “No,” he said, “I was all right in the head; but I’m here to tell you I was pretty near plumb sick when I stuck my ol’ head up over the top o’ that rise an’ seen this here hos-tile lookin’ me right in the eye with his ugly, painted mug. Say, I ken see him right now, a-sittin’ there on his ewe neck roan. I did a back flip down thet hill an’ pretty near kilt myself for sure.” He grinned broadly at the recollection. “Three weeks ago—a ewe neck roan,” soliloquized Billings. “Did he have a blaze face?” Wichita Billings could feel the flush that overspread her face and she was glad that she was standing a little to the rear of her father as she listened eagerly to the conversation. “Yep,” affirmed the young man, “he had a blaze face.” Billings half turned toward his daughter. “Now how in all tarnation did that Siwash git a-holt of that cayuse?” he demanded. “Musta took it out o’ the c’ral right under the noses o’ those there soldiers. I missed that critter the next mornin’ an’ I never ben able to see what in all tarnation become of him. Thet beats me!” “Well, I reckon your hoss is down Sonora way somewheres by now,” said the youth. “Fed?” inquired Billings. “Nope.” “Dump your roll off at the bunk house and turn your hoss into the fust c’ral there,” Billings directed. “I’ll have the chink rustle you some grub. You ken go to work in the mornin’.” “What I can’t understand,” said Billings, when he had come back from the kitchen, “is why that Siwash didn’t plug that kid.” “Maybe they aint all bad, Dad,” said Wichita, who thought that she understood perfectly why Shoz-Dijiji had not killed the boy. “No,” admitted her father, “the dead ones aint so bad.”