Only once did the squaw speak on the way to the river. The girl was walking alongside Deacon, steadying Johnny Buffalo on that side while Rawley held the other. They were talking easily now, of impersonal things; and when, on a short climb, the burro stepped sharply to one side and Johnny Buffalo lurched toward the girl, Rawley slipped his arm farther behind the Indian. His fingers clasped for an instant the girl’s hand. The squaw, walking heavily behind, saw the brief contact.
“Nevada! You shall not be so bold,” she cried in Pahute. “Take away your hand from the white man.”
The girl turned her head and answered sharply in the same tongue and afterwards smiled across at Rawley, meeting his eyes with perfect frankness.
“Yes, my name is Nevada. I’ll save you the trouble of asking,” she said calmly. “El Dorado Nevada Macalister, if you want it all at once. Luckily, no one ever attempts to call me all of it. My parents were loyal, romantic, and had an ear for euphony.”
“Were?” The small impertinence slipped out in spite of Rawley; but fortunately she did not seem to mind.
“Yes. My father was caught in a cave-in in the Quartette Mine when I was a baby. Mother died when I was six. I have a beautiful, impractical name—and not much else—to remember them by. I’ve lived with Grandfather and Grandmother; except, of course, what time I have been in school.” She gave him another quick look behind Johnny Buffalo’s back. “And your autobiography?”
“Mine is more simple and not so interesting. Name, George Rawlins King. Place of birth, a suburb of St. Louis. Occupation, mining engineer. Present avocation, prospecting during my vacation. My idea of play, you see, is to get out here in the heat and snakes and work at my trade—for myself.”
“And Johnny Buffalo?”
“Oh, he just came along. Hadn’t seen this country since he was a kid and wanted to get back, I suppose, on his old stamping ground. He lived with Grandfather. But Grandfather died a few weeks ago, and Johnny and I have sort of thrown in together. Now, I suppose our prospecting trip is all off—for the present, anyway.”
“This country has been gone over with a microscope, almost,” said Nevada. “I suppose there is mineral in these hills yet, but it must be pretty well hidden. The country used to swarm with prospectors, but they seem to have got disgusted and quit. The war in Europe, of course, has created a market—” She stopped and laughed with chagrin. “Of course a lady desert rat like me can give a mining engineer valuable information concerning markets and economic conditions in general!”