“Why does anybody steal? I need the dinero—me, Smith.”
“You want money?”
He laughed.
“I always want money. I never had enough but once in my life, and then I had too much. Gold is hell to pack,” he added reminiscently.
“I have de fine hay-ranch, white man, de best on de reservation. Two, four t’ousand dollars I have when de hay is sold. De ranch is big”—her arms swept the horizon to show its extent. “You stay here and make de bargain with de cattlemen, and I give you so much”—she measured a third of her hand with her forefinger. “If dat is not enough, I give you so much”—she measured the half of her hand with her forefinger. “If dat not enough, I give you all.” She swept the palm of one hand with the other.
Smith dropped his eyelids, that she might not see the triumph shining beneath them.
“I must think, Prairie Flower.”
“No, white man, you no think. You stay!”
Smith, who had arisen, slipped his arm about her ample waist. She pulled aside his Mackinaw coat and laid her head upon his breast.
“The white man’s heart is strong,” she said softly.