Once she dreamily murmured, apropos of nothing, yet apropos of much:
“We must be about the same age. I am not old, not really very old.”
“I am twenty-five,” I answered.
“So I thought,” she mused.
Then, later, in manner of having revolved this idea also, more distinctly apropos and voiced with a certain triumph:
“I’m glad we drank water when we might; aren’t you?”
“You were so wise,” I praised; and I felt sorry for her cracked lips. It is astonishing with what swiftness, even upon the dry desert, amid the dry air, under the dry burning sun, thirst quickens into a consuming fire scorching from within outward to the skin.
We lapsed into that remarkable patience, playing the game with the Sioux and steadily viewing each other; and she asked, casually:
“Where will you shoot me, Frank?” 307
This bared the secret heart of me.