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Page 6
When the bull was gone, wounded by that unexpected rifle shot, and her
three chums gathered about her, this thought of Tom's danger was still
uppermost in Ruth's mind.
"Dear me, how silly of me!" she murmured. "There are lots worse things
happening every moment over there than being gored by a bull."
"What an idea!" ejaculated Helen. "Are you crazy? What has that to do
with you being pitched over that fence, for instance?"
She glanced at the fence which divided the field in which the
automobiles stood from that where the two great tents of the Wild West
Show were pitched. A broad-hatted man was standing at the bars. He
drawled:
"Gal ain't hurt none, is she? That was a close shave--closer, a pile,
than I'd want to have myself. Some savage critter, that bull. And if
Dakota Joe's gal wasn't a crack shot that young lady would sure been
throwed higher than Haman."
Ruth had now struggled to her feet with the aid of Jenny and Mercy.
"Do find out who it was shot the bull!" she cried.
Jennie, although still white-faced, grinned broadly again. "_Now_ who is
guilty of the most atrocious slang? 'Shot the bull,' indeed!"
"Thar she is," answered the broad-hatted man, pointing to a figure
approaching the fence. Helen fairly gasped at sight of her.
"Right out of a Remington black-and-white," she shrilled in Ruth
Fielding's ear.
The sight actually jolted Ruth's mind away from the fright which had
overwhelmed it. She stared at the person indicated with growing interest
as well as appreciation of the picturesque figure she made. She was an
Indian girl in the gala costume of her tribe, feather head-dress and
all. Or, perhaps, one would better say she was dressed as the white man
expects an Indian to dress when on exhibition.
But aside from her dress, which was most attractive, the girl herself
held Ruth's keen interest. Despite her high cheekbones and the dusky
copper color of her skin, this strange girl's features were handsome.
There was pride expressed in them--pride and firmness and, withal, a
certain sadness that added not a little to the charm of the Indian
girl's visage.
"What a strange person!" murmured Helen Cameron.
"She is pretty," announced the assured Mercy Curtis, who always held her
own opinion to be right on any subject. "One brunette never does like
another," and she made a little face at Helen.
"Listen!" commanded Jennie Stone. "What does she say?"
The Indian girl spoke again, and this time they all heard her.
"Is the white lady injured, Conlon?"
"No, ma'am!" declared the broad-hatted man. "She'll be as chipper as a
blue-jay in a minute. That was a near shot, Wonota. For an Injun you're
some shot, I'll tell the world."
An expression of disdain passed over the Indian girl's face. She looked
away from the man and Ruth's glance caught her attention.
"I thank you very much, Miss--Miss--"
"I am called Wonota in the Osage tongue," interposed the Indian maiden
composedly enough.
"She's Dakota Joe's Injun sharpshooter," put in the man at the fence.
"And she ain't no business out here in her play-actin' costume--or with
her gun loaded that-a-way. Aginst the law. That gun she uses is for
shootin' glass balls and clay pigeons in the show."
"Well, Miss Wonota," said Ruth, trying to ignore the officious man who
evidently annoyed the Indian maiden, "I am very thankful you did have
your rifle with you at this particular juncture." She approached the
fence and reached over it to clasp the Indian girl's hand warmly.
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