Me Smith

until they looked to be riding into an ocean. It made Smith think of the Big Water, by moonlight, over there on the Sundown slope. Even the lean, dark figures riding beside him seemed a part of a dream; and Dora, when he thought of her, was shadowy, unreal. He had a strange feeling that he was galloping, galloping out of her life.

THEY QUIRTED THEIR HORSES AT BREAKNECK SPEED IN THE DIRECTION OF THE BAD LANDS.
    There were times when he felt as if he were floating. His sensations were like the hallucinations of fever, and then he would find himself called back to a realization of facts by the swish of leather thongs on a horse’s flank, or some smothered, half-uttered imprecation when a horse stumbled. The air of the coming morning fanned his cheeks, its coolness stimulated him, and something of the fairy-like beauty of the white world around him impressed even Smith.
    They had left the flatter country behind them, and were riding among hills and limestone cliffs, Running Rabbit winding in and out with the certainty of one on familiar ground. The way was rough, and they slackened their pace, riding one behind the other, Indian file.
    Running Rabbit reined in where the moonlight turned a limestone hill to silver, and threw up his hand to halt.
    He untied the rope which bound Smith’s hands and feet.
    “You can’t coil a rope no more nor a gopher,” said Smith, watching him.
    “The white man does many things better than the Indian.” Running Rabbit went on coiling the rope.
    He motioned Smith to follow, and led the way on foot.
    “I dotes on these moonlight picnics,” said Smith sardonically, as he panted up the steep hills, his high-heeled boots clattering among the rocks in contrast to the silent footsteps of the Indian’s moccasined feet.
    Running Rabbit stopped where the limestone hill had cracked, leaving a crevice wide at the top and shallowing at the bottom.
    “This is a good place for a white man who coils a rope so well, to rest,” he said, and seated himself near the edge of the crevice, motioning Smith to be seated also.
    “Or for white men who shoot old Indians in the back to think about what they have done.” Yellow Bird joined them.
    “Or for smart thieves to tell where they left their stolen horses.” Bear Chief dropped cross-legged near them.
    “Or for those whose forked tongue talks love to two women at once to use it for himself.” The voice was sneering.
    “Smith, you’re up against it!” the prisoner said to himself.
    As the others came up the hill, they enlarged the half-circle which now faced him. Recovering himself, he eyed them indifferently, one by one.
    “I have enemies, friends,” he said.
    “White Antelope had no enemies,” Yellow Bird replied.
    “The Indian woman had no enemies,” said Running Rabbit.
    “It is our friends who steal our horses”—Bear Chief’s voice was even and unemotional.
    Their behavior puzzled Smith. They seemed now to be in no hurry. Without gibes or jeers, they sat as if waiting for something or somebody. What was it? He asked himself the question over and over again. They listened with interest to the stories of his prowess and adventures. He flattered them collectively and individually, and they responded sometimes in praise as fulsome as has own. All the knowledge, the tact, the wit, of which he was possessed, he used to gain time. If only he could hold them until the sun rose. But why had they brought him there? With all his adroitness and subtlety, he could get no inkling of their intentions. The suspense got on Smith’s nerves, though he gave no outward sign. The first gray light of morning came, and still they waited. The east flamed.
    “It will be hot to-day,” said Running Rabbit. “The sky is red.”
    Then the sun showed itself, glowing like a red-hot stove-lid shoved above the horizon.
    In silence they watched the coming day.
    “This limestone draws the heat,” said Smith, and he laid aside his coat. “But it suits me. I hates to be chilly.”
    Bear Chief stood up, and they all arose.
    “You are like us—you like the sun. It is warm; it is good. Look at it. Look long time, white man!”
    There was something ominous in his tone, and Smith moistened his short upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
    “Over there is the ranch where the white woman lives. Look—look long time, white man!” He swung his gaunt arm to the west.
    “You make the big talk, Injun,” sneered Smith, but his mouth was dry.
    “Up there is the sky