We were going down the Cañon when Hetty called after us: "Well, don't take any bad money, you two."
She stood in the doorway, wiping flour from her hands. Bob was grinning over her shoulder. The caution must have reminded Lafe. He slapped his hip pocket and extracted a wallet, from which he drew two soiled bills.
"Here," he said, riding back, "you keep this, Hetty. I've got three dollars in silver. That'll do me."
"You're learning," was her composed comment, and she slipped the money inside the bosom of her waist. After this agreeable exhibition of domestic foresight, we rode down the Cañon and started across the valley. It may be that I showed amusement.
"What's hurting you?" Lafe asked; "what I done then? That's the only way I can save money. It's right queer, Dan, but whenever I have any and get to town, it goes like a bat out of hell."
This information was wholly superfluous. "I usually have to charge my horse's keep and my meals," I confessed.
"Sure. It's in the blood, I reckon. But if me and you and all the others don't learn to sweat a dollar, all these here new people a-coming in from the States will take everything off'n us. Yes, sir, they'll have us bare to the hides. Some of 'em have got the first two-bits they ever earned."
The only previous occasion on which I had seen Johnson hoard his money was once when he hid it in the band of his hat as a safeguard against new-found friends, and, during subsequent operations, forgot its hiding place. Lafe had been bitterly chagrined on discovering it later, holding himself cheated of entertainment. Assuredly his new responsibilities were working a change of heart.
"Lafe, I never knew Hetty was so pretty."
"You're whistlin'," he said. An accompanying sniff signified surprise and contempt that my recognition was so tardy. We jogged along and he became thoughtful. Finally he asked: "Did you notice it, too?"