His black hair bushed out under the brim of his sombrero, and for some reason it stirred the latent wrath in Jac. She went to him and stood with arms akimbo, staring down.
“Too bad,” he said, but did not look up.
“What’s too bad?”
“The red hair.”
It was a long moment before she spoke. “Huh!” she said. “If I was to talk about your hair you’d think I was discussin’ a record crop of hay. If I was to—”
She stopped, for the twinkling eyes were smiling up to her.
“I look like the land of much rain, all right,” said the stranger.
Jac dropped to a cross-legged position with the agility of an Indian and supporting her chin on both hands she stared impudently into the face of the stranger.
“What does the land look like when the forest is gone?”
“It ain’t been surveyed for so long I’ve forgotten.”