an. "_Senor! cary mucho
aguardiente grano!_"

"Oh, ye do?" sarcastically replied Turley. "Whiskey, huh? Wall, ye'll do
better without it. What's Bent want o' me?"

"_Aguardiente de grano, senor!_"

Turley chuckled. "He does, hey? I say he picks damned poor messengers to
send fer whiskey! We'll talk about that tomorrow. Roll up some'rs in yer
blankets an' don't pester me." He stepped back and the door slammed in
the eager, pleading face of the Blackfoot, to a chorus of disappointed
grunts. The rebuffed savage timidly knocked on the door and it was flung
open, Turley glaring down at him. "Ye heard what I said, an' ye savvied
it! Reckon I want four drunk Injuns 'round hyar all night? We ain't
a-goin' ter have no damned nonsense. Take yer animals off ter th'
pasture an' camp down by th' crick! _Vamoose!_"

The picture of pugnacity, he stood in the door and watched them slowly,
sullenly obey him, and then he slammed it again, swearing under his
breath. "Quickest way ter git murdered is ter give them Injuns likker!"
he growled.

"_Mais, oui_," said the French-Canadian, placing his fiddle back under
his chin, and the stirring air went on again.

Three hours before dawn Hank awoke and without moving his body let his
eyes rove over the dark pasture. Then like a flash of light his heavy
pistol jammed into the dark blotch almost at his side, and he growled a
throaty inquiry.

"It's me, Hank," came the soft reply. "Take that damned thing away!
What's up?"

Three other pairs of eyes were turned on them and then their owners
stirred a little and grunted salutations, and made slight rustlings as
their hands replaced what they had held.

"Nothin', only a courtin' party," chuckled Hank.

"Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties," ruminated Turley; "but
never one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know some
damned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', at
yer time o' life? Somebody's wife?"

"We're aimin' fer Santer Fe," said Hank. "Got ter have help ter git thar
th' way we wants. Them Texans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' up
everythin' like they has."

"Whar'd ye git yer hosses?" anxiously demanded Turley.

"Inderpendence, Missoury," innocently answered Hank, his grin lost in
the darkness.

"Then ye come over th' wagon trail, an' up th' Arkansas?"

"Over th' wagon trail an' up th' Cimarron, with th' second caravan o'
traders. Come nigh straight acrost from Cold Spring."