XIII

THE VISIT OF THE INDIANS

"Tressa! Quick!"

But Tressa was too busy in the kitchen.

"Tressa Torrance. It's a free show--I wouldn't miss it. It's an
epoch."

She came skipping through the door. "If it's only the trestle again--"

Torrance pointed dramatically across the trestle to the far bank.
"This time it's our first callers." He turned to the pair of saddled
horses tied to rings in the wall beyond the front door. "No, we're not
riding to-night. We're entertaining. That is, if the local nabobs
over there don't funk the trestle. I'd run the speeder over if I
thought it wouldn't give them a fit. You never know what scares an
Indian."

On the distant bank an Indian and his squaw were seated like statues on
horses as motionless as themselves. The former, his horse seemingly on
the very brink of the chasm, was leaning forward, his eyes shaded by
his hand. The squaw, on higher ground, outlined against the sky,
waited phlegmatically.

"Are you sure they're alive, daddy?"

"Certain. I saw Mrs. Indian's horse's tail flicker. Like to have a
close-up, wouldn't you? Staring at us like that, it makes a fellow
feel as if he's been stealing something of theirs and they're taking a
good look in time for the scalping season."

He climbed the loose sand of the grade and waved.

The response was immediate. At a jerk of the squaw's hand her horse
cantered down to where her lord had taken his stand. And for a time
they sat side by side watching the distant welcome of the white man.

Suddenly the Indian's heels flew out and in, and the odd little broncho
wheeled on its hind legs and swung into a wide circle. The squaw did
not even look interested.

"Some rider, eh?" applauded Torrance. "If your old dad could ride like
that he'd never have taken up railway building. Funny nag, that of
his. Looks like a hobby horse come to life. What's he trying to tell
us? Regrets he can't come? Or is it a challenge to bring my bow and
arrow and settle the old feud? Anyway, it's a rattling good stunt--and
I'd like to know the answer."

"I think he wants time to consider your invitation."

"By hickory, Tressa, another year and we'd have missed this. It takes
only about one season to muddle up their riding with the white man's
booze--or the white man's treaty money. Why don't we leave well enough
alone--that is, if they'd let us build railways?"

The horse continued to gyrate, its rider performing the fa