tly exchanged
blankets, and Tubbs, to whom most saddle blankets looked alike, did not
detect the difference.

Upon returning to the house, Smith found the Indian woman wiping breakfast
dishes for the cook. She came into the living-room when he beckoned to
her, with the towel in her hand. Taking it from her, he wadded it up and
threw it back into the kitchen.

"Don't you know any better not to spoil a cook like that, woman?" he
asked, smiling down upon her. "You never want to touch a dish for a cook.
Row with 'em, work 'em over, keep 'em down--but don't humor 'em. You can't
treat a cook like a real man. Ev'ry reg'lar cook has a screw loose or he
wouldn't be a cook. Cookin' ain't no man's job. I never had no use for
reg'lar cooks--me, Smith.

"All you women need ribbing up once in awhile," he added, as, laying his
hand lightly on her arm, he let it slide its length until it touched her
fingers. He gave them a gentle pressure and resumed his seat against the
wall.

The woman's eyes glowed as she looked at him. His authoritative attitude
appealed to her whose ancestors had dressed game, tanned hides, and
dragged wood for their masters for countless generations. The growing
passion in her eyes did not escape Smith.

In the long silence which followed he looked at her steadily; finally he
said:

"Well, I guess I'll saddle up. You look 'just so' to me, woman--but I got
to go."

She laid down the rags of her mat and "threw him the sign" for which he
had waited. It said:

"My heart is high; it is good toward you. Talk to me--talk straight."

He shook his head sadly.

"No, no, Singing Bird; I am headed for the Mexican border--many, many
sleeps from here."

She arose and walked to his side.

He felt a sudden and violent dislike for her flabby, swaying hips, her
heavy step, as she moved toward him. He knew that the game was won, and
won so easily it was a school-boy's play.

"Why you go?" she demanded, and the disappointment in her eyes was so
intense as to resemble fear. "What you do dere?"

He looked at her through half-closed eyes.

"Did you ever hear of wet horses?"

She shook her head.

"I deals in wet horses--me, Smith."

The woman stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Down there on the border," he explained, "you buy the horses on the
Mexico side. You buy 'em when the Mexican boss is asleep in his 'dobe, so
there's no kick about the price. You swim 'em across the Rio Grande and
sell 'em to the America