Part 22 (1/2)

”Got on his horse and pulled out, hey?” said Farwell. ”Yes, of course, that's what he did. That's why the track is pressed in so deep. That's all right. Simon, how many men stop last night?”

”Four, five cayuse stop,” Simon answered. ”Mebbyso four, five, man stop.”

”Well, four or five cayuses must have left a trail of some kind. You find it. Follow--catchum. Find where they live--their _illahee_, where they hang out. You get that?”

Simon nodded and went to his horse. Farwell frowned at the lone moccasin track, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Simon in the act of mounting. Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly.

”What?” Keeler asked.

”Hey, Simon!” said Farwell. ”This man with oleman moccasin--him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?”

Simon nodded. ”Ah-ha!” he agreed.

”Then he's a white man,” Farwell exclaimed. ”This is the track of a right foot, made while he was standing reaching for the stirrup with the left. An Indian always gets on his horse from the wrong side, and puts his right foot in the stirrup first.”

”So he does,” said Keeler.

”So this fellow is a white man,” Farwell concluded triumphantly. ”We want a white man with a patched moccasin. You _k.u.mtuks_, Simon? Injun mount so. White man so--left foot up, right foot down. White man's moccasin, Simon.”

”Huh!” Simon grunted gravely. ”Mebbyso white man; mebbyso _sitk.u.m Siwash_.”

”Half-breed nothing!” Farwell declared. ”Straight white, I tell you.

Now get ahead on the trail.”

But whatever Simon's skill as a trailer, it availed little. In half a mile the hoofprints merged with many others in a beaten track, and so were lost. Simon halted.

”_Halo mamook!_” said he, signifying that he had done his possible. The fact was so self-evident that Farwell could not gainsay it.

”That's an easy five for you,” he grumbled. ”We might as well get back, Keeler. I never took any stock in that old buck, anyway. He's a gold brick, like all the rest of them.”

But Simon, when they had gone, kept along the beaten track. And shortly he came to where McCrae had turned the buckboard around. Simon, after examining the tracks, took pains to efface them entirely; after which he ambled on, his usually grave countenance illumined by a grin.

Following the road, peering narrowly at either side, he finally came in sight of Talapus Ranch. Halting, he surveyed the fields.

The ditches of Talapus were once more running rap-full; and Donald McCrae, his son, and half a dozen men were busy with shovels and hoes turning the water down among the young grain in marks already prepared which followed the natural slope of the land; taking care that the little rivulets should be of sufficient strength to run the length of the field, but not so strong as to wash out the soil; adjusting the flow to a nicety with miniature dams of sods and stones.

Old Simon rode slowly along the ditch until he came to where Sandy McCrae was working.

”h.e.l.lo, Simon!” said the latter carelessly. ”How you makin' it this morning? You keeping _skook.u.m?_”

”Ah-ha!” Simon responded gutturally. ”_Skook.u.m_, you?”

”You bet,” Sandy replied. ”_Hiyu skook.u.m_ me.” He leaned on his shovel for a moment, stretching his young, sinewy body, grinning at the Indian. The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear.

”_Mamook huyhuy_ moccasin,” said he.

”Swap moccasins?” Sandy repeated. ”What for? Yours are new. _Chee_ moccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk.”

But Simon insisted. ”_Mamook huyhuy_,” said he. ”_Halo mitlite oleman_ moccasin.”

”Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?” asked Sandy.