“Not so much married squaw—yet.”
“Not so much married....” repeated the Girl when the merriment, which his words provoked, had subsided. “Come ’ere, you thievin’ redskin!” And when he had slid up to the bar, and she had extracted from his pockets a number of cigars which she knew had been pilfered, she added: “You git up to my cabin an’ marry my squaw before I git there.” And at another emphatic “Git!” the Indian, much to the amusement of all, started for the Girl’s cabin.
“Here—here’s your prairie oyster, Sonora,” at last said the Girl; and then turning to the Sheriff and speaking to him for the first time, she called out gaily: “Hello, Rance!”
“Hello, Girl!” replied the Gambler without even a glance at her or ceasing to shuffle the cards.
Presently, Sonora pulled out a bag of gold-dust and told the Girl to clear the slate out of it. She was in the act of taking the sack when Nick, rushing into the room and jerking his thumb over his shoulder, said:
“Say, Girl, there’s a fellow in there wants to know if we can help out on provisions.”
“Sure; what does he want?” returned the Girl with a show of willingness to accommodate him.
“Bread.”
“Bread? Does he think we’re runnin’ a bakery?”
“Then he asked for sardines.”