"Tell me, kid," said Cherokee, not using his new voice, "are you sure your mother kissed that picture that looks like me?"
"Dead sure. I seen her do it."
"Didn't you remark somethin' a while ago about wanting a rifle?"
"You bet I did. Will you get me one?"
"To-morrow—silver-mounted."
Cherokee took out his watch.
"Half-past nine. We'll hit the Junction plumb on time with Christmas Day. Are you cold? Sit closer, son."
XVIII
A CHAPARRAL PRINCE
Nine o'clock at last, and the drudging toil of the day was ended. Lena climbed to her room in the third half-story of the Quarrymen's Hotel. Since daylight she had slaved, doing the work of a full-grown woman, scrubbing the floors, washing the heavy ironstone plates and cups, making the beds, and supplying the insatiate demands for wood and water in that turbulent and depressing hostelry.
The din of the day's quarrying was over—the blasting and drilling, the creaking of the great cranes, the shouts of the foremen, the backing and shifting of the flat-cars hauling the heavy blocks of limestone. Down in the hotel office three or four of the labourers were growling and swearing over a belated game of checkers. Heavy odours of stewed meat, hot grease, and cheap coffee hung like a depressing fog about the house.