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At the crossing of this stream, about sixty-five miles from White River Agency, ten Indians, headed by two Ute chiefs, Colorow and Jack, made their appearance. They were closely questioned, but professed great friendliness for the whites and would betray none of the secrets of their tribe.
When he lit gentlemen, when he lit he was the most restless Ute in western Colorado. He milled around the corral considerable. I got a kinda notion he'd sorta soured on the funny-boy business. Anyhow, he didn't cotton to my style o' humor. Different with old Colorow an' the others. They liked to 'a' hollered their fool haids off at the gent I'd put the new Slash Lazy D brand on.
The aboriginal sense of humor may not be highly developed, but it is easily aroused. The friends of the outraged brave stamped up and down the dirt floor in spasms of mirth. They clapped him on the back and jabbered ironic inquiries as to his well-being. For the moment, at least, Dud was as popular as a funny clown in a sawdust ring. Colorow and his companions were fed. The stove roared.
Old Colorow was at their head. He grunted "How!" sulkily. The other braves passed without speaking. Something in their manner sent a shiver up Dillon's spine. He and Hawks were armed only with revolvers. It would be the easiest thing in the world for the Indians to kill them if they wished. Hawks called a cheerful greeting. It suggested the friendliest of feeling.
How long has he known Viola?" "It's nearly two years since he came to Colorow; but he has only seen her a few times " Pratt cut her short. "I begin to understand. You'd better not let him mix in here he's too young and too good-looking to conduct experiments of this kind with your girl. If you had any sense, Clarke, you'd see that for yourself." Clarke's expression changed.
Bob made a fire in the tin stove while Dud took care of the horses. He found flour and lard hanging in pails from the rafters. Coffee was in a tin under the bunk. Soon Dud joined him. They made their supper of venison, biscuits, and coffee. Hollister had just lit a pipe and stretched himself on the bed when the door opened and sixteen Ute bucks filed gravely in. Colorow was the spokesman. "Hungry!
The village of Colorow is enclosed by a colossal amphitheatre of dove-gray stone, in whose niches wind-warped pines stand like spectators silent and waiting.
Veteran troopers of the old regiment were scouting there for gold and silver, where ten years earlier they had scouted for the red warriors of Colorow and Yampah Jack. If he could but get in touch with Nolan, with Feeny, with almost any one of those now mining who once rode in "E" Troop!
He was not an emotional person, and had not been permitted to consider pleasure the chief object, even of a vacation, but he went to his bed that night well pleased with Colorow, and with a half-defined sense that this was, after all, the point towards which his long journey, with all its windings, had really tended.
Here his smile died, his eyes softened, and his face set in impenetrable gravity. "Had I the power I would keep Viola Lambert forever young and forever virgin." Then, with a quick return to his familiar drawl: "But I am going away without even killing Clarke, to plod my little round in Colorow and wait news from you. If I do not see you again, Mrs. Rice, keep me in mind.
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