"No, she did not tell me." The words came in a cold, impersonal monotone.
"Can't I come in?" Brent asked the question suddenly. "I must get back to camp soon. I just came down to see—to see if I could be of any help in bringing in the meat."
"The women bring in the meat," answered the woman, and Brent felt as though he had been caught lying. But, she stepped aside and motioned him to a rude bench beside the stove. Brent removed his cap and glanced about him, surprised at the extreme cleanliness of the interior, until he suddenly remembered that this was the home of the girl with the wondrous dark eyes. Covertly he searched the face of the old squaw, trying to discover one single feature that would proclaim her to be the mother of
the girl, but try as he would, no slightest resemblance could he find in any line or lineament of the wrinkled visage.
She had seated herself upon the edge of the bunk beyond the little stove.
"Can't we be friends?" he asked abruptly.
The laugh that greeted his question sounded in his ears like the snarl of a wolf: "Yes, if you will let me kill you now—we can be friends."
"Oh, come," laughed Brent, "That's carrying friendship a bit too far, don't you think?"
"I had rather you had traded hooch to the men," answered the woman, sullenly, "For then she would even now hate you—as someday she will learn to hate you!"
"Learn to hate me! What do you mean?"