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It’s a pot-hunter’s maxim never to win by a big margin, but to nose out his man at the finish. This Mike did, winnin’ by a yard; then he acted as if he was all in–faked a faint, and I doused him with a sombrero of water from the creek. It was a spectacular race, at that, for at the finish the runners was bunched till a blanket would of covered ’em. When they tore into the finish I seen the chief’s girl do a trick. Mike was runnin’ on the outside, and when nobody was watchin’ her the little squaw kicked one of them blanket bundles about two feet down the course, givin’ Mike that much the “edge.” She done it clever and it would have throwed a close race.

Them savages swallered their physic and grinned, like the chief had told ’em, and they took it standin’ up. They turned over the flower of their pony herd to us, not to mention about six quarts of silver money and enough blankets to fill our tent. The old chief patted Mike on the back, then put both hands to his temples with his fingers spread out, as much as to say, “He runs like a deer.”

Bimeby a buck stepped up and begun makin’ signs. He pointed to the sun four times, and we gathered that he wanted us to wait four days until he could go and get another man.

Mike tipped me the wink, sayin’: “They’re goin’ after the champeen of the tribe. That phony faint of mine done it. Will we wait? Why, say, we’d wait four years, wouldn’t we? Sweet pickin’s, I call it. Champeen, huh?”

“For me, I’d wait here till I was old folks,” I said. “I don’t aim to leave these simple savages nothin’. Nothin’ at all, but a lot of idle regrets.”

Well, sir, there was a heap of excitement in that camp for the next three days. All them Injuns done, was to come and look at Mike and feel of his legs and argue with one another. The first night after the race Mike tuned up his guitar, and later on I heard snatches of the “Spanish Fandango” stealin’ up from the river bank. I knew what was on; I knew without lookin’ that the old chief’s girl was right there beside him, huggin’ her knees and listenin’ with both ears. I didn’t like to think about it, for she was a nice little yearlin’, and it looked to me like Mike was up to his usual devilment. Seemed like a low-down trick to play on an injunoo like her, and the more I studied it the warmer I got. It was a wonderful night; the moonlight drenched the valley, and there was the smell of camp-fires and horses over everything–just the sort of a night for a guitar, just the sort of a night to make your blood run hot and to draw you out into the glitter and make you race with your shadow.

When Mike moseyed in, along about ten o’clock, he was plumb loco; the moon-madness was on him strong. His eyes was as bright as silver coins, and his voice had a queer ring to it.

“What a night!” said he. “And what a life this is Lord! I’m tired of pot-huntin’. I’ve trimmed suckers till I’m weary; I’ve toted a gold brick in my pocket till my clothes bag. I’m sick of it. I’m goin’ to beat this Injun champeen, take my half of our winnin’s, sell off the runty ones, and settle down.”

“Where do you aim to settle?” I inquired.

“Oh, anywhere hereabouts. These are good people, and I like ’em.”

“You mean you’re goin’ to turn out with the Injuns?” I inquired, with my mouth open. Mike had led so sudden that he had me over the ropes.

“I’m goin’ to do that very little thing,” he declared. “I dunno how to talk much Navajo, but I’m learnin’ fast, and she got my meanin’. We understand each other, and we’ll do better as time goes on. She calls me ‘Emmike’! Sweet, ain’t it?” He heaved a sigh, then he gargled a laugh that sounded like boilin’ mush. “It ain’t often a feller like me gets a swell little dame that worships him. Horses, guns, camp-fires! Can you beat it?”