Rosemary and Jean, standing in the porch, waved good-bye to their men folk until the last bobbing hatcrown had gone down out of sight in the long, low swale that creased the mesa in that direction. Whereupon they went into the house.
“What in the world is the matter with Annie?” Jean exploded, with a little shiver. “I'd rather hear a band of gray wolves tune up when you're caught out in the breaks and have to ride in the dark. What is that caterwaul? Do you suppose she's on the warpath or anything?”
“Oh, that's just the squaw coming out in her!” Rosemary slammed the door shut so they could not hear so plainly. “She's getting more Injuny every day of her life. I used to try and treat her like a white girl—but you just can't do it, Jean.”
“Hiu-hiu-hi-i-ah-h! Hiu-hiu-hi-i-ah-h-h—hiaaa-h-h!”
Jean stood in the middle of the room and listened. “Br-r-r!” she shivered—and one could not blame her. “I wonder if she'd be mad,” she drawled, “if I went out and told her to shut up. It sounds as if somebody was dead, or going to die or something. Like Lite says your dog will howl if anything—”
“Oh, for pity sake!” Rosemary pushed her into the living room with make-believe savageness. “I've heard her and Luck sing that last winter. And there's a kind of a teetery dance that goes with it. It's supposed to be a mourning song, as Luck explains it. But don't pay any attention to her at all. She just does it to get on our nerves. It'd tickle her to death if she thought it made us nervous.”
“And now the dog is joining in on the chorus! I must say they're a cheerful pair to have around the house. And I know one thing—if they keep that up much longer, I'll either get out there with a gun, or saddle up and follow the boys.”
“They'd tease us to death, Jean, if we let Annie run us out.”
“It's run or be run,” Jean retorted irritatedly. “I wanted to write poetry today—I thought of an awfully striking sentence about the—for heaven's sake, where's a shotgun?”
“Jean, you wouldn't!” Rosemary, I may here explain, was very femininely afraid of guns. “She'd—why, there's no telling WHAT she might do! Luck says she carries a knife.”