"Afternoon, Ordway," Brisbin said. He sounded embarrassed. "Missourians said they saw an Indian come down out of the north yesterday with a string of horses. Said he came in here. We thought we'd better ride over and see you were all right."
"I'm all right."
"That your mare?" Coker said.
"That's my mare."
"Huh." Coker leaned forward and spat, carefully, away from the yard. "Thought she'd been et in Montana by now. Or shot out from under somebody."
"She was not shot out from under anybody," Tukweyit said. He said it mildly, in his easy English, and every one of the three riders started a little, as though a fence post had spoken. "She carried my grandfather, who was seventy-six years old, and my niece, who was five, from the Clearwater to the Milk River. Nobody rode her into any fight. I would not have let them. She was not mine to lose."
There was a silence.
"And who might you be?" Coker said.