mamma's brother friend him say to White Chief, 'You see now why you no
tell. Injun him good, no blame. White men they bad, want kill Injun.'

"White Chief him say, 'No, Injun bad. Me tell.'"

"Him go back and--"

The door of the bunk house opened suddenly and a cowboy stalked in, a
lean, dark man, rather short and slim, with eyes of that peculiar light,
slaty gray that have a staring effect; apparently no depth to them.
These, with heavy overhanging brows and an inclination to sneer, gave
him a forbidding appearance. His hat and slicker glistened with water.
At his entrance Injun ceased speaking abruptly.

"Gee, I got soaked in that rain," said the newcomer. "Stopped at th' Cut
on my way back from th' Junction. Th' railroad hands got paid, to-day,
an' they're raisin' cain. Wisht I'd stayed there, 'stead o' gettin'
soaked."

"I wish you had, too," Bill Jordan murmured to himself, unheard by the
other.

This puncher, Henry Dorgan, was a man who was vaguely disliked on the
ranch, with nothing in particular on which to hang the cause of the
feeling. It was characteristic of him, for one thing, that he had no
nickname. In a country where almost every one's name was familiarly
shortened into Hank, or Bill, or Jim, or was changed to Kid, or Red, or
Shorty, he remained Henry--not even Harry.

He threw off his hat and slicker, stamped to shake off the moisture that