“Not the kind YOU mean; these are very peaceful. There's a squaw here whom you will”—he stopped, hesitated as he looked critically at the girl, and then corrected himself—“who will help you.”
He pushed open the cabin door and showed an interior, equally simple but well joined and fitted,—a marvel of neatness and finish to the frontier girl's eye. There were shelves and cupboards and other conveniences, yet with no ostentation of refinement to frighten her rustic sensibilities.
Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called “Waya.” A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse cotton gown, but cleaner and more presentable than the girl's one frock, appeared in the doorway. “This is Waya, who attends to the cooking and cleaning,” he said; “and by the way, what is your name?”
“Libby Jones.”
He took a small memorandum book and a “stub” of pencil from his pocket. “Elizabeth Jones,” he said, writing it down. The girl interposed a long red hand.
“No,” she interrupted sharply, “not Elizabeth, but Libby, short for Lib'rty.”
“Liberty?”
“Yes.”
“Liberty Jones, then. Well, Waya, this is Miss Jones, who will look after the cows and calves—and the dairy.” Then glancing at her torn dress, he added: “You'll find some clean things in there, until I can send up something from San Jose. Waya will show you.”
Without further speech he turned away with the other man. When they were some distance from the cabin, the younger remarked:—