The ranch was quiet, with even the dogs asleep in the shade.
Peppajee insisted in one sentence upon going straight on to camp,
so they did not stop. Without speaking, they plodded through the
dust up the grade, left it, and followed the dim trail through
the sagebrush and rocks to the Indian camp which seemed asleep
also, except where three squaws were squatting in the sharply
defined, conical shadow of a wikiup, mumbling desultorily the
gossip of their little world, while their fingers moved with
mechanical industry--one shining black head bent over a
half-finished, beaded moccasin, another stitching a crude gown of
bright-flowered calico, and the third braiding her hair afresh
with leisurely care for its perfect smoothness. Good Indian took
note of the group before it stirred to activity, and murmured
anxiety over the bandaged foot of Peppajee.
"Me no can watchum more, mebbyso six days. Yo' no sleepum all
time yo' walk--no thinkum all time squaw. Mebbyso yo' think for
man-snake.
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