“'Take not to yourself the mammon of unrighteousness,'” said the girl, with the confident air of repeating a lesson. “That's what the Book says.”
“But I read the Bible, too,” replied the young man.
“Dad says, 'The letter killeth'!” said the girl sententiously.
Fleming looked at the trophies nailed on the walls with a vague wonder if this peculiar Scriptural destructiveness had anything to do with his skill as a marksman. The girl followed his eye.
“Dad's a mighty hunter afore the Lord.”
“What does he do with these skins?”
“Trades 'em off for grub and fixin's. But he don't believe in trottin' round in the mud for gold.”
“Don't you suppose these animals would have preferred it if he had? Gold hunting takes nothing from anybody.”
The girl stared at him, and then, to his great surprise, laughed instead of being angry. It was a very fascinating laugh in her imperfectly nourished pale face, and her little teeth revealed the bluish milky whiteness of pips of young Indian corn.
“Wot yer lookin' at?” she asked frankly.