That was all, a secondary lapse, a
burst of flowing, irresponsible passion like a puff of burning
gunpowder, and it was over; yet it was enough. In that second was told
the tale of a human life. In that and in the surreptitious sidelong
glance following, that searched for an expression in the boyishly soft
face of his companion. But the Indian was looking straight before him,
looking as one who has seen nothing, heard nothing; and, silent as
before the interruption, they journeyed on.
A half hour slipped by, a period wherein the horses walked and galloped,
and walked again, ere the white man forgot, ere the instinct of
companionship, the necessity of conversation, urban-fostered, gained
mastery. Then as before, he looked at the other surreptitiously, through
unconsciously narrowed lids.
"I haven't yet asked your name?" he formalised baldly, curtly.
The guide showed no surprise, no consciousness of the long silence
preceding.
"The Sioux call me Ma-wa-cha-sa: the ranchers, How Landor."
Craig dropped the reins over his saddle and fumbled in his pockets.
"The Indian word has a meaning, I presume?"
"Translated into English, it would be 'the lost pappoose.'"
The eyebrows of the Easterner lifted; but he made no comment.
"You have been with my uncle, with Mr. Landor, I mean, long?"
"Since I can remember--almost."
The search within the checkered blouse ended. The inquisitor produced a
pipe and lit it.
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