“Good-night.”
She stared at the door as it closed behind him. She had something of the feeling of one who, making a pet of a tiger, feels its claws for the first time, sees the first indication of its ferocious nature. This new phase of Smith’s character, while it angered, also filled her with uneasiness.
It was later than usual when Smith came in to say a word to the Indian woman, after Dora and Susie had retired. He did not bring with him the fumes of tobacco, the smoke of which rose in clouds in the bunk-house, making it all but impossible to see the length of the building; he brought, rather, an odor of freshness, a feeling of coolness, as though he had been long in the night air.
The Indian woman sniffed imperceptibly.
“Where you been?”
His look was evil as he answered:
“Me? I’ve been payin’ my debts, me—Smith.”
He took her impassive hand in both of his and pressed it against his heart.
“Prairie Flower,” he said, “I want you to tell Ralston to go. I hate him.”
The woman looked at him, but did not answer.