"Eight bits," she said.
Roger dropped a dollar into her slender brown palm. The squaw flashed white teeth at him and a younger woman pressed forward holding up an olla no bigger than a teacup, a duplicate in design of the one he had just bought.
"I'll take that for Felicia," he murmured. "How much?"
"Two bits."
He tossed her the quarter. "You make 'em camp up there?" asked the old squaw.
"Yes," replied Roger. "Come and call on us, ladies."
"We bring 'em baskets, maybe," replied the squaw.
Roger nodded and started the horses on, looking back from time to time for pure pleasure in the beauty of those scarlet fluttering capes.
They reached the camp about ten o'clock and were vociferously welcomed by Ernest, who, before taking the horses up to the corral, insisted on showing them his day's work.
"Nothing doing on the carpenter's bench," he said, flashing the "lightning bug" toward the site of the engine house. "Look here. Dick came over right after breakfast and we were hard at this all day."