hen they stay,"
Annie-Many-Ponies observed in her musical contralto voice which always
irritated Applehead with its very melody. "I think plenty wire all fold
up neat in prop-room. Wagalexa Conka, he all time clean this studio from
trash lie around everywhere."

"He does, hey?" Applehead's sunburnt mustache bristled like the whiskers
of Compadre when he was snarling defiance at the little black dog.
The feud was asserting itself. "Well, this here danged place ain't no
studio! It's a ranch, and it b'longs to ME, Nip Furrman. And any balin'
wire on this ranch is my balin' wire, and it's got a right to lay around
wherever I want it t' lay. And I don't need no danged squaw givin' me
hints about 'how my place oughta be kept--now I'm tellin' yuh!"

Annie-Many-Ponies did not reply in words. She sat on her horse, straight
as any young warchief that ever led her kinsmen to battle, and looked
down at Applehead with that maddening half smile of hers, inscrutable as
the Sphinx her features sometimes resembled. Shunka Chistala (which
is Sioux for Little Dog) came bounding over the low ridge that hid the
ranch buildings from sight, and wagged himself dislocatingly up to her.
Annie-Many-Ponies frowned at his approach until she saw that Applehead
was aiming a clod at the dog, whereupon she touched her heels to the
horse and sent him between Applehead and her pet, and gave Shunka
Chistala a sharp command in Sioux that sent him back to the house with
his tail dropped.

For a full half minute she and old Applehead looked at each other
in open antagonism. For a squaw, Annie-Many-Ponies was remarkably
unsubmissive in her bearing. Her big eyes were frankly hostile; her half
smile was, in the opinion of Applehead, almost as frankly scornful.
He could not match her in the subtleties of feminine warfare. He took
refuge behind the masculine bulwark of authority.

"Where yuh bin with that horse uh mine?" he demanded harshly. "Purty
note when I don't git no say about my own stock. Got him all het up and
heavin' like he'd been runnin' cattle; I ain't goin' to stand for havin'
my horses ran to death, now I'm tellin' yuh! Fer a squaw, I must say
you're gittin' too danged uppish in your ways around here. Next time
you want to go traipsin' around the mesa, you kin go afoot. I'm goin' to
need my horses fer roundup."

A white girl would have made some angry retort; but Annie-Many-Ponies,
without looking in the least abashed, held her peace and kept