“Well, sir!” He adjusted the seat.
“Well, sir!” He picked up the reins and clucked to the horses.
“Well, sir! I know ’em. Them’s the fellers that held up the Great Northern!”
The Indian woman said not a word. Her heart was filled with despair. What would Smith say? was her thought. What would he do? She felt intuitively how great would be his disappointment. How could she tell him?
She drew the blanket tighter about her shoulders and across her face, crouching on the seat like a culprit.
The ranch-house was dark when they drove into the yard, for which she was thankful. She left Meeteetse to unharness, and, without striking a light or speaking to Susie, crept between her blankets like a frightened child.
Smith, in his dreams, had heard the rumble of the wagon as it crossed the ford, and he awoke the next morning with a sensation of pleasurable anticipation. In his mind’s eye, he saw the banknotes in a heap before him. There were all kinds in the picture—greasy ones, crisp ones, tattered bills pasted together with white strips of paper. He rather liked these best, because the care with which they had been preserved conveyed an idea of value. They had been treasured, coveted by others, counted often.
Eager, animated, his eyes bright, his lips curving in a smile, Smith hurried into his clothes and to the ranch-house, to seek the Indian woman. He heard her heavy step as she crossed the floor of the living-room, and he waited outside the door.
“Prairie Flower!” he whispered as she stood before him.
She avoided his eyes, and her fingers fumbled nervously with the buckle of her wide belt.