Wing o’ the Crow was a beauty—there was no denying that. She was twenty-two and strong and lithe as an Indian girl. On her cheeks was that mahogany-red coloring so attractive in decided brunettes. Her skin was smooth and flawless as the skin of an olive, and her great black eyes, made darker still by the long, black lashes that shadowed them, were fascinating. Her masses of black hair showed no more careful attention than does a wind-blown straw stack, but it lost no picturesqueness because of this.
“My stars!” gasped Manzanita under her breath.
Wing o’ the Crow smiled bashfully at Hunter Mangan, then her big eyes settled a curious look on his companion.
“Pa’s back at th’ tail end, Mr. Mangan,” she said. “How fur ’re we from th’ job?”
“Oh, not more than two miles now. I want you to meet Miss Canby, Miss Jeddo. She lives at that adobe house over there in the cottonwoods, where we get our water. You’ll be camping on the ranch.”
Wing o’ the Crow shyly smiled at Manzanita.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to be movin’ ahead,” she said.
“Wait,” Manzanita told her. “Hunt, you ride back and see her father, if you want to. I’m going to ride in the van, if you’ll lead my mare.”
“Good!” said Hunt. “You two get acquainted.”
Manzanita swung to the ground and handed the contractor her bridle reins. Then she clambered up over the hub to the seat beside Wing o’ the Crow, who divided the seat pad with her.