You sabe?"
Annie-Many-Ponies raised her hand even with her breast, and swept it out and
upward in the Indian sign-talk which meant "yes." Luck's eyes flashed
appreciation of the gesture; he loved the sign-talk of the old plains tribes.
"Be careful, Annie," he cried impulsively. "I don't want you to be hurt." He
dropped the megaphone as she swung her horse back from the edge and
disappeared. "I'd cut the whole scene out if I didn't know what a rider she
is," he added to the others, more uneasy than he cared to own. "But it would
hurt her a heap more if I wouldn't let her ride where Jean rode. She's proud;
awfully proud and sensitive."
"I'm glad you're letting her do it," Jean said sympathetically. "She'd hate me
if you hadn't. But I'm going to watch her with my eyes shut, just the same.
It's an awfully mean place in spots."
"She'll make it, all right," Luck declared. But his tone was not so confident
as his words, and he was manifestly reluctant to place the whistle to his
lips. He fussed with his script, and he squinted into the viewfinder, and he
made certain for the second time just where the side-lines came, and thrust
half an inch deeper in the sandy soil the slender stakes which would tell
Annie-Many-Ponies where she must guide the pinto when she came tearing down to
foreground.
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