Beaded
moccasins were on her feet, and her eyes were frightened eyes,
with the wistfulness of a timid animal. Yet she did not seem to
be afraid of Good Indian.
"I sorry I scare yo' horse," she said hesitatingly, speaking
better English than before. "I heap hurry to get here. I speak
with yo'."
"Well, what is it?" Good Indian's tone was not as brusque as his
words; indeed, he spoke very gently, for him. This was the
good-looking young squaw he had seen at the Indian camp. "What's
your name?" he asked, remembering suddenly that he had never
heard it.
"Rachel. Peppajee, he my uncle." She glanced up at him shyly,
then down to where the pliant toe of her moccasin was patting a
tiny depression into the dust. "Bad mans like for shoot yo',"
she said, not looking directly at him again. "Him up there, all
time walk where him can look down, mebbyso see you, mebbyso
shootum."
"I know--I'm going to ride around that way and round him up."
Unconsciously his manner had the arrogance of strength and power
to do as he wished, which belongs to healthy young males.
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