The morning repast was over before John Carter could find opportunity to speak with Cogewea about having employed Alfred Densmore, the “tenderfoot.” The boys were at the barn, saddling their mounts preparatory to chasing the horses from the “wings” into the main corral. Carter still lingered at the house. The girl knew all too well what was brewing and had avoided meeting him the evening before. They met on the veranda and she was cornered. His clean shaven face appeared unusually stern as he spoke:

“Cogewea! you should have known better than to hire that tenderfoot. I wish that I had gone myself. It is just like a woman anyway! When you ask them to do anything of a business nature they always make a mess of it. Are you ever going to grow up? Will you ever be a woman⁠ ⁠… a full fledged woman of mature judgment⁠ ⁠… and quit these baby ways of yours? Will you ever cease your mischievous and annoying pranks?”

“Why John!” she exclaimed with well feigned surprise. “You talk just as if I were an irresponsible; a mere infant. I notice that I am as tall as my honored brother-in-law; and so far as growing up is concerned, I don’t believe in becoming old. Only once are we young. Bask in the morning sun while the dew still sparkles, is my philosophy.”

“Yes! that is right, too; but frivolity and business can not be ridden with the same saddle. You should have procured someone who knows something about breaking broncs. Why! that fellow will commit suicide rangling those wild horses. I simply leave the entire deal in your hands. Should he happen to kill himself, you will be held responsible.”

“Oh! quit your jawin’. Let’s call it square and smoke the peace pipe.”

“I am willing, but never let it happen again. I wish now that I had asked Bob. He would have done better. What will I do with a crippled man or a dead one? I’ll have the expense of burying the guy.”

“I will foot the bills and give you a mortgage on my allotment. Besides,” she continued mockingly, “I only acted within my rights as your prospective foreman.”

Carter left the veranda partly placated. He could not remain angry with his jocund sister-in-law.

Cogewea stood watching Bill and Bob drive the horses into the main corral. Jim was still at the barn door brushing his horse’s legs. He lingered thinking that she would come to him as of old; but instead, she went directly to the corral, where Densmore sat on the fence absentmindedly whittling a small stick, smooth and round. He was waiting to ride his first horse. He was hardly satisfied with his surroundings. Where were those picturesque Indians that he was promised to meet? Instead, he had been lured into a nest of half bloods, whom he had always understood to be the inferior degenerates of two races. He could not fathom the forward girl with the musical, though unpronounceable name. What was she? He had had much to do with women and was a reader of character, but this one was unfathomable. What would his refined mother and sisters say, could they see him in his present surroundings?

A slight rustle at his side caused him to turn. There stood the forward girl on the third rail from the bottom, her brown arms over the top rail.

“You look lonesome, Mr. Densmore,” she said without formality, “and I thought to come and have a chat with you.”

At this freedom, the tenderfoot had nearly toppled from his seat with astonishment. He had yet to learn the ways of a plain’s cowgirl. An introduction on the range might be in keeping among the more conventional whites, but at the H-B such formality was unknown. The Easterner’s embarrassment passed instantly and tipping his hat, he answered:

“I am glad that you take an interest in the welfare of a stranger, for our former meeting was of the most casual; Miss⁠—”

“Aw! shake that miss! Just call me every day Cogewea.”

“You certainly have a very romantic name, but I’m not sure that I can speak it.”

“Co‑ge‑wea. Cogewea. It’s simple.”

Densmore, after many attempts, succeeded in pronouncing the Indian cognomen, and then asked for her surname. The girl’s black eyes twinkled, as she answered amusedly:

“I never mentioned any second name. All my friends call me Cogewea, and that is what you will call me if you want to be a pal of mine. It means chipmunk in our language.”

“I think it suits you just splendidly; Miss⁠—”

“Aw! drop that Miss! It’s Cogewea or nothing. You said that you could ride, Mr. Densmore?”

“Y‑e‑s! Please call me just plain Alfred; for I prefer it. I will try to master that woodland name of yours.”

“Alright! But say!” was the rather anxious query. “Can you ride a genuine bronc?”

“W‑hy⁠—a⁠—yes,” was the stammered reply. The tenderfoot supposed “bronc” to be but a western phrase for donkey.

“Where did you ride?”

“I dropped down here from Canada,” was the careless reply.

Cogewea’s intentions were, when questioning him, to warn him against the outlaw which she knew would be saddled for him. But when he said that he could ride a bronc and that he came from Canada, she almost laughed outright. Somehow she now wished that he could ride. How it would surprise John and the boys if he vied with them. She knew that some very good riders came from Canada, but she did not dream that he was directly from eastern Ontario. She supposed that he was from British Columbia.

While Cogewea and the Easterner were thus conversing, the boys were planning sport at the expense of the tenderfoot. Jim’s swarthy face darkened a shade when he saw the two perched on the fence engaged in friendly conversation. He was unconsciously biting his scanty mustache. Something in his breast seemed to hurt. He thought that Cogewea was taking too much interest in the stranger and he would humiliate him.

Ignoring the stirrup, the foreman seized the saddle horn from the right⁠—Indians invariably mount from the right side⁠—and bounded gracefully into the saddle. Touching the heavy silver mounted spurs to his horse’s flanks, the animal trained, went into the air, bucking for the distance of a hundred yards and then settled into a smooth lope; ascending the slope to the upper end of the wing where the boys were cutting out some of the wild horses to be driven into the main corral.

Densmore looked on with surprise at this exhibition. He wondered if that was what they called a “bronc” instead of a donkey. If so, the performance seemed easy. Jim was a cool and graceful rider and to the Easterner the task of remaining in the saddle did not appear one of difficulty.

“Say boys!” Jim spoke in an undertone, “we’re goin’ to have a little circus of our own. We’ll saddle Croppy for that there swell guy. White shirts and stand-up collars don’t go on this here ranch. We’ll have fun to the finish. He’ll be lucky if he gets off with a skinned nose and elbows. His high bridge will be scratched some. We’ll see some saddle chokin’, eh! pardner?” turning to Silent Bob to second him in his purpose. The Virginian dragged:

“I kinder hater see the pore feller throwed; I hater dig a six-foot grave this hot weather.”

“We’ll help yo’ dig it,” volunteered Celluloid Bill.

“The feller said he could ride,” interrupted Rodeo Jack. “I asked him an’ he said with that there polished manner of his’n: ‘Why cer‑tain‑ly!’ An’ he comes from that there King George country an’ maybe he has a little s’prise up his sleeve for us bronc twisters.”

“Hell! We’ll chance it,” rejoined Jim. “No rider ever wears a stiff caddy; and Croppy hates a plug-hat worse nor pizen. John said to give him an old skate to ride, but he ain’t a goin’ to loco our little show. He’s gone ’cross the river in a skiff to see that there geezer over there.” Jim waved his arm towards the opposite side of the Pend d’Oreille, where another stockman lived.

The horses were driven into the main corral. They were of every size and color, from common cayuse to thoroughbreds. The poor frightened animals trampled one another unmercifully; their eyes wild with fright. Two colts were killed by the mad pounding hoofs circling the enclosure. Jim rode into the center of the corral. He swung his rawhide rope and shot it over the head of Croppy, the far famed Flathead outlaw that very few riders dared mount.

The horse reared, plunging and fighting hard; but the experienced cowpuncher soon had him closely “snubbed” to his saddle horn. The other boys hurrying to his aid, the frenzied animal was soon blindfolded.

Cogewea now decided to stop them from saddling the horse, but before she reached them, they were putting the last hitch to the cinch. She had hesitated too long. The stranger had touched a cord in her womanly heart and she half repented the part she had taken in the game. But it was now too late. Densmore was donning chaps and spurs proffered by Celluloid Bill. It would be better for the tenderfoot to risk death in the saddle than to face the constant taunts which he would be compelled to endure should he prove a quitter. Jim’s voice was rather derisive as he called.

“Hey there! pardner. Here’s your hoss. Better come scratch this here feller.”

The “pardner” hesitated. He felt unusually shaky. Cogewea with her quick eye noticed it and said unconcernedly, “What’s wrong?”

The Easterner did not attempt to answer, but braced up with a wan smile. The girl wished that she had warned him in time. But now what could she do? She was well aware that the boys would make life intolerable for him did he dare back down at the last moment. Jim again called.

“Come on pardner, be a sport! Put your spurs to this here cayuse. He’s tired waitin’ for you.”

Densmore walked across the corral and stopped near the outlaw, hesitating. Jim continued to sneer.

“Are you ’fraid of this here old plug?”

“Aw! don’t be a quitter!” Rodeo bantered. “Come on an’ ride an’ show us some of yo’ Canadian stunts. I thought yo’ said yo’ was a bronco twister of the North country.”

“I did say that I could ride,” retorted Densmore with flushed temples, “but I did not say that I could ride a horse that requires four men to handle.”

“He’s gettin’ col’ feet,” drawled Bob. “Aw come on. Don’t pike on us, or we’ll hafter get Cogewea to break yo’ cayuse fer yo’. I hater see the little gal a showin’ yo’ how to ride; I hater see yo’ a missin’ so good a thin’.”

At this sally the boys all laughed. Densmore glanced at Cogewea, who was also smiling. She had climbed back on the fence out of possible danger. He now determined to ride if it took the last breath. He stepped to the horse whose flanks were quivering with excitement and whose open mouth was foaming. Croppy was backed against the corral, while the rest of the horses from the opposite side of the enclosure looked on in wonder.

Densmore placed his foot in the stirrup, but he was shaking like a leaf in a summer breeze. However he was not going to back out amid the jeers and sneers of those Westerners. He found the other stirrup. Jim pulled the handkerchief-blind from Croppy’s eyes and the boys all leaped aside. The “circus” was of short duration. The maddened horse bawled and bucked as only an outlaw can. Densmore grabbed the saddle horn and held on with all his strength. The riders yelled in a chorus.

“Let’er go there feller! Don’t choke ’er!”

The rider went catapulting through the air and landed in a crumpled heap in the corral dust. Cogewea jumped from her perch and was at his side before any of the boys had made a move. She tenderly lifted his bleeding head to her knee. A long gash showed above the temple, from which the blood flowed freely. His right arm was limp. His face was colorless and the girl believed him dead. The riders rushed forward. She looked up to meet the eyes of Jim. Her own gleamed with scorn; as she faced him a moment before finding speech.

“James LaGrinder! this is all your work and you will pay dearly for it too. You knew that Croppy was a brute⁠—an outlaw⁠—and you knew that this man could not ride. You had no business getting him on the devil.”

“Why⁠—I⁠—I⁠—I thought he could ride! the d⁠—”

“You hurry and get some water as quick as God will let you. I think this man is dead. Hurry!” she called after him in an anxious tone.

Jim hardly heard the last words. He was running down the sloping river bank with a tin can in his hand. He dipped it in the stream, but the water gushed out from the torn side. He threw it aside with an oath. Taking his new sombrero, he scooped the water and started up the hill on a run. Evidently perturbed, his tanned face was immobile. He felt that he was the cause of the tenderfoot’s death and many things flashed through his mind as he ran. He had meant no serious harm to the man; but his jealousy had prompted him to saddle Croppy instead of an ordinary bronc. His joy was great when reaching the little group, to find that the Easterner had opened his eyes. His face was drawn with agony, but he uttered no complaint. Jim held the brimming hat to his lips. He drank deeply. Cogewea bathed his head and face and bound his temples with the silk handkerchief which the foreman tore from his own neck. She ordered him to ride for the old doctor, who was homesteading some miles away. He mounted and rode as if the injured man were his own brother.

It was Cogewea who commanded.

When the doctor arrived, he found the right arm broken, which he set and put in splints. He stitched the wide gash over the temple without a moan from the patient. The tenderfoot, though he could not ride, showed no weakness in the presence of his tormentors. Then the kind hearted doctor left him, telling Cogewea how to dress the head-wound and that he was going to depend on her to nurse the gentleman. Cogewea, feeling remorse and in a measure responsible for his condition and determining to make amends so far as in her power, accepted the charge gladly. She later came in with the riders for her share of scolding from John Carter; but she took it good naturedly.

Notwithstanding it was jealousy that prompted Jim to go to the extreme in “breaking” the tenderfoot and it pained him that Cogewea would be so constantly in the injured man’s company as nurse, he did everything possible to render the invalid’s lot more tolerable. Governed as much by the unwritten Indian law of justice as by that of the White man, he promptly met the doctor’s fees. But the other riders insisted on sharing this expense. Rodeo observed:

“It’s a durn sight more comfor’able than helpin’ Bob dig that there grave th’ guy don’t need.”

Rodeo agreed to remain on the ranch until the broncos were all broken and tamed.