“And you never,” she went on, “heerd of a young feller called Pool Clayton? His reg’lar name was Bruce, but he played pool and billiards so much that the fellers got to callin’ him Pool; and I reckon it fit him, fer the name stuck. He’s a young man, not much more’n a boy, and I think he knowed you!”
The final sentence she shot at the scout as if it were an accusation.
“I never happened to meet him, so far as my knowledge goes.”
“He’s a young man, and rather good lookin’; more weak than really mean, I should say; and goin’ to the dogs fast, last accounts I had of him.”
“I never heard of him.”
She brushed her lap again, as if there were more crumbs in it, and looked down, as if taking time to gather her thoughts, or think of more questions. Finally she rose, shaking out her skirt.
“Now, if you don’t ’bject, I’d like fer ye to give me a lift on yer hoss, if he’ll kerry double. It’s askin’ a good deal, I know, but——”
“I shall be happy to let you ride on my horse, and I will walk; or you may mount behind my saddle, if that pleases you.”
She laughed then, cackling out in the manner that had first attracted him. It was not musical, nor even suggestive of good humor, though the woman apparently meant that it should suggest the last.
“I’m Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar,” she said again, “and I hope you won’t rue the day when you fust met me. You won’t, if you’re straight. But if you’re not reelly Buffler Bill, but the fake that mebbe ye aire, you’ll not think meetin’ me was good fer yer health.”