"I've business of importance," she said proudly, "ter transack."
She returned the following evening with a larger parcel than the first.
"I've bought a bonnet," she confessed shyly, "an' trimmins."
We prevailed upon her to show us these purchases: white satin ribbon, jet, and a feather that might have graced the hat of the Master of Ravenswood. The "locating" of this splendid plume was no easy task.
"Maxims," sighed Gloriana, "is mostly rubbish. Now, fine feathers--an' ther ain't a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county--don't make fine birds. A sparrer is always a sparrer, an' can't look like an ostridge noway. But, good land! feathers is my weakness."
She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.
"I bought more'n a bonnet yesterday," she said, with her head on one side, and a slyly complacent smile upon her lips. "Yes, sir, stuff ter make a dress--a party dress, the finest kind o' goods."
Ajax stared helplessly at me. The mystery that encompassed this woman was positively indecent.
"An' shoes," she concluded. "I bought me a pair, hand sewn, with French tips--very dressy."
Later, inspired by tobacco, we agreed that the problem was solved. Our head vaquero, Uncle Jake, gaunt as a coyote at Christmas, and quite as hungry, had fallen a victim to Gloriana's flesh-pots. He lived in an old adobe near the big corral, boarded himself and a couple of Mexicans upon tortillas, frijoles and bacon, and was famous throughout the countryside as a confirmed bachelor and woman hater. We entertained a high regard for this veteran, because he seldom got drunk, and always drove cattle slowly. To him the sly Gloriana served Anglo-Saxon viands: pies, "jell'" (compounded according to a famous Wisconsin recipe), and hot biscuit, light as the laughter of children! What misogynist can withstand such arts? I remembered that at the fall calf-branding Uncle Jake had expressed his approval of our cordon bleu in no measured terms.