Without warning save for the beat of hoofs in the sandy soil,
Grant charged over the brow of the hill and into camp, scattering
dogs, papooses, and squaws alike as he rode.
ShriLL clamor filled the sultry air. Sleeping bucks awoke,
scowling at the uproar; and the horse of Good Indian, hating
always the smell and the litter of an Indian camp, pitched
furiously into the very wikiup of old Hagar, who hated the rider
of old. In the first breathing spell he loosed the dog, which
skulked, limping, into the first sheltered spot be found, and
laid him down to lick his outraged person and whimper to himself
at the memory of his plight. Grant pulled his horse to a restive
stand before a group of screeching squaws, and laughed outright
at the panic of them.
"Hello! Viney! I brought back your dog," he drawled. "He tried
to bite me--heap kay bueno* dog. Mebbyso you killum. Me no
hurtum--all time him Hartley, all time him try hard bite me.
Sleeping Turtle tell me him Viney dog.
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