"Hid out," Wagalexa Conka had said. Well, she would hide out, then--she, the
daughter of a chief of the Sioux; she, whom Wagalexa Conka had been glad to
have in his picture when he was poor and had no money to pay white leading
women. But now he had much money; now he could come in a big automobile, with
a slim, white leading woman and a camera man and scenic artist and much money
in his pocket; and she--she was just a squaw who had hid out, and who would
show up after a while and be grateful if he took her by the hand and said,
"How!"

With so many persons moving eagerly here and there, none but an Indian could
have slipped away from that house and from the ranch without being seen. But
though the place was bald and open to the four winds save for a few detached
outbuildings, Annie-Many-Ponies went away upon the mesa and no one saw her go.

She did not dare go to the corral for her horse. The corral was in plain sight
of the house, and the eyes of Wagalexa Conka were keen as the eye of the
Sioux, his foster brothers. He would see her there. He would call: "Annie,
come here!" and she would go, and would stand submissive before him, and would
be glad that he noticed her; for she was born of the tribe where women obey
their masters, and the heritage of centuries may not be lightly lain aside
like an outgrown garment. She felt that this was so; that although her heart
might burn with resentment because he had forgotten and must be reminded by a
strange white woman that the "squaw" was not present, still, if he called her
she must go, because Wagalexa Conka was master there and the master must be
obeyed.

Down the dry wash where Applehead had hunted for baling wire she went swiftly,
with the straight-backed, free stride of the plainswoman who knows not the
muscle-bondage of boned girdle. In moccasins she walked; for a certain pride
of race, a certain sense of the picture-value of beaded buckskin and bright