Had he seen her face, he must have been satisfied that the chance shot struck home. But in the shadow hate blazed unseen from her eyes. She did not speak, and so he went back to his first charge.
“All this don't tell me moch,” he complained. “Yoh lov' him, maybe? That's what I ask.”
“Wagalexa Conka my brother, my father, my friend,” she replied calmly, and let him interpret it as he would.
“He treats yoh like a dog. He crazee 'bout that Jean. He gives her all smiles, all what yoh call foreground stuff. I know—I got eyes. Me, it makes me mad for see how he treat yoh—and yoh so trying hard always to Please. He got no heart for yoh—me, I see that.” He moved a step closer, hesitating, wanting yet not quite daring to touch her. “Me, I lov' yoh, little Annie,” he murmured. “Yoh lov' me little bit, eh? Jus' little bit! Jus' for say, 'Ramon, I go weeth yoh, I be yoh woman—'”
Annie-Many-Ponies widened the distance between them. “Why you not say wife?” she queried suspiciously.
“Woman, wife, sweetheart—all same,” he assured her with his voice like a caress. “All words mean I lov' yoh jus' same. Now yoh say yoh lov' me, say yoh go weeth me, I be one happy man. I go back on camp and my heart she's singing lov' song. My girl weeth eyes that shine so bright, she lov' me moch as I lov' her. That what my heart she sing. Yoh not be so cruel like stone—yoh say, 'Ramon, I lov' yoh.' Jus' like that! So easy to say!”
“Not easy,” she denied, moved to save her freedom yet a while longer. “I say them words, then I—then I not be same girl like now. Maybe much troubles come. Maybe much happy—I dunno. Lots time I see plenty trouble come for girl that say them words for man. Some time plenty happy—I think trouble comes most many times. I think Wagalexa Conka he be awful mad. I not like for hims be mad.”
“Now you make ME mad—Ramon what loves yoh! Yoh like for Ramon be mad, perhaps? Always yoh 'fraid Luck Lindsay this, 'fraid Luck that other. Me, I gets damn' sick hear that talk all time. Bimeby he marree som' girl, then what for you? He don' maree yoh, eh? He don' lov' yoh; he think too good for maree Indian girl. Me, I not think like that. I, Ramon Chavez, I think proud to lov, yoh. Ramon—”
“I not think Wagalexa Conka marry me.” The girl was turning stubborn under his importunities. “Wagalexa Conka my brother—my friend. I tell you plenty time. Now I tell no more.”
“Ramon loves yoh so moch,” he pleaded, and smiled to himself when he saw her turn toward toward him again. The love-talk—that was what a woman likes best to hear! “Yoh say yoh lov' Ramon jus' little bit!”