"Oh, now you make me jealous," she pouted. "If I were only a Yaqui—and big and black—"
"Never mind," defended Bud. "He was a true friend, all right, and true friends, believe me, are scarce."
There was a shade of bitterness in his voice that did not escape her, and she was careful not to allude to Phil. His name, like the name of her father, always drove this shy man to silence, and she wanted to make him talk.
"Then you ought to be friends with me," she chided, after a silence. "I have always wanted to be your friend—why will you never allow it? No, but really! Haven't I always shown it? I remember now the first time that I saw you—I was looking through my hole among the passion-flowers and you saw me with your keen eyes. Phil did not—but he was there. And you just looked at me once—and looked away. Why did you never respond when I came there to look for you? You would just ride by and look at me once, and even Phil never knew."
"No," agreed Bud, smiling quietly. "He was crazy to see you, but he rode right by, looking at the windows and such."
"The first time I met him," mused Gracia, "I asked about you. Did he ever tell you?"
Bud hung his head and grinned sheepishly. It was not difficult to make out a case against him.
"Is it something I have done?" she asked at last. "Is that why you never liked me? Now, Mr. Hooker, please speak to me! And why do you always sit so far away—are you afraid of me? But look"—she moved closer to him—"here we are alone, and I am not afraid of you!"
"Of course not," answered Bud, looking across at her boldly. "Why should you be—you ain't afraid of nothing!"
"Is that a compliment?" she demanded eagerly. "Oh, then I'm so happy—it's the first you ever paid me! But have I been brave," she beamed, "so far? Have I been brave, like a man?"