The black button eyes stared at me, not with hostility, but obviously without any particular liking for me.
The dirt road curved slowly back toward the highway. There were innumerable bumpy little roads leading off the dirt road toward primitive looking parts of the lower mountains, but I was afraid to follow them. I didn't want to get too completely into Indian territory!
When we came to a fence broken only by an open gateway across the road, I stopped the car and leaned across the Indian woman, opening the door.
"You'd better get out here," I said.
She didn't move.
"Listen, I don't dare to take you out of the reservation. It might be a violation of the Mann act, or something. Goodbye," I said suggestively.
The fat squaw rolled out of the car, and stood staring at me, her glittering eyes speculative as I started the car.
I bumped across the cow guard, which was a twin to the one I had crossed when I entered the reservation, and glanced into the mirror to see what she was doing. As the dust from the tires settled I saw her squatting beside the road, adjusting her filthy shawl as it whipped in the wind, and settling herself comfortably.
I drove along the stretch of pavement that led to the highway with a vague sense of disappointment.
I hadn't expected to find a bunch of Indians in full war dress, yelling and whooping; I hadn't expected to see any venerable, feather-headdressed chiefs smoking long pipes of peace; and I certainly hadn't expected to be scalped. And yet I left the reservation with a vague sense of disappointment.