“I like to hear you talk. Please go on.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure, Mike! I wish you’d talk lots to Mart. He certainly can murder the English language.”
“It’s not my theme, then, that interests you—merely my stilted words.”
“No, no! Not that. I like to hear people say pretty things. I read lots of poetry. Did you ever write poetry, Hunt?”
“You’re bound to make me confess, aren’t you?” he questioned with a laugh. “I’m through lecturing now. Think over what I have said.”
“Sure. Thank you very much. And now how about a bunch of squawtooth?”
“You do it. I like to see you, even though I realize that it is dangerous.”
“When I miss, I suppose, and wave my feet in air?”
She touched her mare’s ribs, and guided her toward a bunch of squawtooth, leaning low from the saddle as she neared it. Then the mare raced past, and she grasped it. And this time it plopped from the sand, and, with her saddle slipped halfway to the mare’s belly, she righted it and herself and waved the plant triumphantly.