"I want free life an' I want free air,
An' I sigh fo' the canter afteh the cattle,
The crack of whips like shots in battle;
The melly of horns an' hoofs an' heads
That wars an' wrangles an' scatters an' spreads,
The green beneath an' the blue above,
An' dash an' danger an' life....
"Somethin' like that. I mayn't have got it jest right, but that's me. The chap that wrote that might have writ pahts of it jest fo' me. He sure knew what he was writin' erbout. It's called In Texas, Down by the Rio Grande. I've been there. Arizony ain't much differunt."
"It's called Lasca," put in Sam. "I seen it in the movies. Had the po'try strung all through it. It was a love story. This Lasca, she——"
Mormon put a heavy foot over Sam's and he subsided.
"So you see I lost out on a heap," said Sandy. "An' I'm a man. I can git erlong with less. But fo' a gel, learnin's a grand thing. An' there's the big cities, an' theaters, fine clothes an' fine manners. Like livin' in another world."
"Where they wear suits like Sam's spiketail," said Mormon. "I mind me when I was to Chicago with a train of steers one time, the tall buildin's was higher than cañon cliffs. On'y full breath I drawed was down on the lake front where they was a free picter show in a museum. Reg'lar storm there was out on the lake; big waves. Wind like to curl my tongue back down my throat an' choke me."
"Who's hornin' in now?" asked Sam. "Go on, Sandy."
"But," said Molly, wide-eyed, "that's the life I like. I mean out here. I don't want to be different."
"Shucks," said Sandy. "You won't be. Jest polished up. Skin slicked up, hair fixed to the style, nails trimmed an' shined. Culchured. Inside you'll be yore real self. You can't take the gold out of a bit of ore any more than you can change iron pyrites inter the reel stuff. But, if the gold's goin' to be put into proper circulation, it's got to be refined. Sabe?"
"I ain't refined, I reckon," said Molly with a sigh. "I don't know as I want to be. I can allus come back, can't I?"