The woman’s eyes glowed as she looked at him. His authoritative attitude appealed to her whose ancestors had dressed game, tanned hides, and dragged wood for their masters for countless generations. The growing passion in her eyes did not escape Smith.
In the long silence which followed he looked at her steadily; finally he said:
“Well, I guess I’ll saddle up. You look ‘just so’ to me, woman—but I got to go.”
She laid down the rags of her mat and “threw him the sign” for which he had waited. It said:
“My heart is high; it is good toward you. Talk to me—talk straight.”
He shook his head sadly.
“No, no, Singing Bird; I am headed for the Mexican border—many, many sleeps from here.”
She arose and walked to his side.
He felt a sudden and violent dislike for her flabby, swaying hips, her heavy step, as she moved toward him. He knew that the game was won, and won so easily it was a school-boy’s play.
“Why you go?” she demanded, and the disappointment in her eyes was so intense as to resemble fear. “What you do dere?”