“Katie told me—Katie Prentice—” His voice trailed off and ended in a breath.
She made a gesture of despair, but repeated persistently:
“She told you that you ought to be ashamed to pack a horse like that. Three hundred pounds, Pete Mullendore! You haven’t any feeling for a horse.”
“Killed Old Blue and left him on the trail. My, but you’re gittin’ growed up fast. Ain’t you got a kiss for Pete?”
She leaned closer.
“Would you do something for me if I kissed you—if Katie Prentice kissed you, Pete Mullendore?”
She repeated her words, speaking in a whisper, with careful distinctness.
“Will you tell Katie something that she wants to know, if she kisses you, Pete Mullendore?”
“Goin’ to take you back to the mountings next trip—learn you to tan hides good—with ashes and deer brains—all—same—squaw—make good squaw out o’ you—Katie—break your spirit first—you brat—lick you till I break your heart.”