“No one’s ever tried,” Dawn flashed. “Gold’s where you find it, you
know.”
“I was just wondering, Miss Dawn, if there was anything to this rumor
that there was silver-bearing quartz on the Indian Reservation?” It was
worth trying out, to question the girl, he thought. Gonzales and others
had shown him samples of first-rate ore from these mountains, but no one
had been able to locate a body of ore. Maybe he could get something out
of this girl. He’d make it his business to acquire the proper locations
and claims no matter on what reservation ore was found. The girl’s face
was perfectly noncommittal, however.
“It would make a great difference to the Indians,” Gershwin continued
aloud. “The Government’s bound to protect the interests of its wards,
you know.”
“And you bet it’ll do it too, Mister,” she retorted, “as far as the
Forest Service is concerned.”
“Mm-m. What would you say, I wonder, if I told you—?” They were walking
at a lazy amble up the road, Jack and his father following about a
quarter of a mile behind, and Mr. Gershwin glanced sidewise at Dawn out
of oblique eyes.
“What, Mister? Shoot!” Dawn turned her steady gaze on him and the
wolf-like eyes turned aside.
“That your father”—he dwelt on the words—“had a claim staked on the
Indian Reservation—what properly should be, and will be, the Indian
Reservation when the correct survey is made.”
“I’d say you were a liar!” Dawn blazed. She pulled Piñon up on his
haunches and looked straight at the big man slouching in the saddle.
“It’s not on Indian ground; never was, and we’ll prove it! Though if it
were it would be safe enough with _us_.
“But all that range you’re aimin’ to open up is Indian ground and always
has been. They’re just tryin’ to give everybody a crooked deal.” Her
voice shook; she was trembling with passion. A slap on Piñon’s flanks
was enough to send him off racing up the road.
A pebble from his flying hoofs struck Gershwin in the cheek, its sharp
edge drawing a fleck of blood. He brushed it off as a giant brushes a
gnat. He was smiling.