He had almost reached the level, and was passing a steep, narrow, little
gully choked with rocks, when something started up so close beside him
that Keno ducked away and squatted almost upon his haunches. His gun was
in his hand, and his finger crooked upon the trigger, when a voice he
faintly recognized called to him softly:

"Yo' no shoot--no shoot--me no hurtum. All time yo' frien'." She stood
trembling beside the trail, a gay, plaid shawl about her shoulders in
place of the usual blanket, her hair braided smoothly with bright,
red ribbons entwined through it. Her dress was a plain slip of bright
calico, which had four-inch roses, very briery and each with a
gaudy butterfly poised upon the topmost petals running over it in an
inextricable tangle. Beaded moccasins were on her feet, and her eyes
were frightened eyes, with the wistfulness of a timid animal. Yet she
did not seem to be afraid of Good Indian.

"I sorry I scare yo' horse," she said hesitatingly, speaking better
English than before. "I heap hurry to get here. I speak with yo'."

"Well, what is it?" Good Indian's tone was not as brusque as his words;
indeed, he spoke very gently, for him. This was the good-looking young
squaw he had seen at the Indian camp. "What's your name?" he asked,
remembering suddenly that he had never heard it.

"Rachel. Peppajee, he my uncle." She glanced up at him shyly, then down
to where the pliant toe of her moccasin was patting a tiny depression
into the dust. "Bad mans like for shoot yo'," she said, not looking
directly at him again. "Him up there, all time walk where him can look
down, mebbyso see you, mebbyso shootum."

"I know--I'm going to ride around that way and round him up."
Unconsciously his manner had the arrogance of strength and power to do
as he wished, which belongs to healthy young males.

"N-o, no-o!" She drew a sharp breath "o' no good there! Dim shoot yo'.
Yo' no go! Ah-h--I sorry I tellum yo' now. Bad mans, him. I watch, I
take care him no shoot. Him shoot, mebbyso _I_ shoot!"

With a little laugh that was more a plea for gentle judgment than
anything else, she raised the plaid shawl, and gave him a glimpse of a
rather battered revolver, cheap when it was new and obviously well past
its prime.

"I want yo'--" she hesitated; "I want yo'--be heap careful. I want yo'
no ride close by hill. Ride far out!" She made a sweeping gesture toward
the valley. "All time I watch."

He was staring at her in a puzz