smooth coat of silver white, the flowing tail,
the upright jetty ears--all were before my eyes. It was he--_the white
steed of the prairies_!

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A QUEER CONVERSATION.

The surprise, with the exertion I had made in raising myself, overcame
me, and I fell back in a swoon.

It was but a momentary dizziness, and in a short while I was again
conscious.

Meanwhile, the two men had approached, and having applied something cold
to my temples, stood near me conversing: I heard every word.

"Durn the weemen!" (I recognised Rube's voice); "thur allers a gittin a
fellur into some scrape. Hyur's a putty pickle to be in, an all through
a gurl. Durn the weemen! sez I."

"We-ell," drawlingly responded Garey, "pre-haps he loves the gal. They
sez she's mighty hansum. Love's a strong feelin, Rube."

Although I had my eyes partially open, I could not see Rube, as he was
standing behind the suspended robe; but a gurgling, clucking sound--
somewhat like that made in pouring water from a bottle--reached my ears,
and told me what effect Garey's remark had produced upon his companion.

"Cuss me, Bill!" the latter at length rejoined--"cuss me! ef yur ain't
as durned a fool as the young fellur hisself! Love's a strong feelin!
He, he, he--ho, ho, hoo! Wal, I guess it must a be to make sich
dodrotted fools o' reezunable men. As yit, it hain't afooled this
child, I reck'n."

"You never knewd what love war, old hoss?"

"Thur yur off o' the trail, Bill-ee. I _did_ oncest--yis, oncest I wur
in love, plum to the toe-nails. But thet wur a gurl to git sweet on.
Ye-es, thet she wur, an no mistake!"

This speech ended in a sigh that sounded like the blowing of a buffalo.

"Who wur the gal?" inquired Garey after a pause. "White, or Injun?"

"Injun!" exclaimed Rube, in a contemptuous tone. "No; I reck'n not,
boyee. I don't say thet, _for a wife_, an Injun ain't jest as good as a
white, an more convaynient she are to git shet of when yur tired o' her.
I've hed a good grist o' squaws in my time--hef-a-dozen maybe, an maybe
more--but this I _kin_ say, an no boastin neyther, thet I never sold a
squaw yet for a plug o' bacca less than I gin for her; an on most o' 'em
I made a clur profit. Thurfur, Billee, I don't object to a Injun fur a
wife: but _wives_ is one thing, an _sweethearts_ is diff'rent, when it
comes to thet. Now the gurl I'm a-talkin 'bout wur my sweetheart."

"She wur a white gal, then?"

"