“About marrying. Yu' don't think I'd better.”
“I don't.”
“Onced in a while yu' tell me I'm flighty. Well, I am. Whoop-ya!”
“Colts ought not to marry,” said I.
“Sure!” said he. And it was not until we came in sight of the Virginian's black horse tied in front of Miss Wood's cabin next the Taylors' that Lin changed the lively course of thought that was evidently filling his mind.
“Tell yu',” said he, touching my arm confidentially and pointing to the black horse, “for all her Vermont refinement she's a woman just the same. She likes him dangling round her so earnest—him that no body ever saw dangle before. And he has quit spreein' with the boys. And what does he get by it? I am glad I was not raised good enough to appreciate the Miss Woods of this world,” he added, defiantly—“except at long range.”
At the Taylors' cabin we found Miss Wood sitting with her admirer, and Tommy from Riverside come to admire Miss Peck. The biscuit-shooter might pass for twenty-seven, certainly. Something had agreed with her—whether the medicine, or the mountain air, or so much masculine company; whatever had done it, she had bloomed into brutal comeliness. Her hair looked curlier, her figure was shapelier, her teeth shone whiter, and her cheeks were a lusty, overbearing red. And there sat Molly Wood talking sweetly to her big, grave Virginian; to look at them, there was no doubt that he had been “raised good enough” to appreciate her, no matter what had been his raising!
Lin greeted every one jauntily. “How are yu', Miss Peck? How are yu', Tommy?” said he. “Hear the news, Tommy? Crow Injuns on the war-path.”
“I declare!” said the biscuit-shooter.
The Virginian was about to say something, but his eye met Lin's, and then he looked at Tommy. Then what he did say was, “I hadn't been goin' to mention it to the ladies until it was right sure.”