Then she seemed to feel that this was harsh, when the things he had done for her were considered.
“I reckon I’d ought to beg yer pardon,” she said apologetically. “If I say things you don’t like, fergit ’em. I’m loose-jawed, and my tongue wags sometimes like a splinter in a windstorm. But if you understood the things that’s made me what I am, you wouldn’t think it a mite strange if I was tryin’ to shoot yer head off, instead of talkin’ ca’m to you. You desarve it, if the things I’ve heerd about ye aire true.”
“I hope to merit your good opinion,” said the scout, much amused by the freedom with which she “wagged” her tongue.
“You’ll git it, if ye desarve it; and if ye don’t desarve it, then you’ll git what you do desarve; and don’t you fail to recklect that! Fer I’m Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar.”
“It seems a strange name,” he said, bringing up his horse.
“Well, I’m Pizen, to some people, ’cause I stand fer my rights and don’t let nobody tromp on me. I’m Pizen to men who don’t do right, you bet! And I’ll tell ye now, what mebbe I’d ought to keep to myself, that I’m on the warpath, and that I’m standin’ ready to shoot full of holes a certain man as soon as I meet him. Rejoice that you ain’t him.”
“You don’t seem so very warlike,” said the scout, smiling at her. “I don’t mind telling you that.”
“That’s a compliment, I s’pose? Well, I don’t desarve it.” She looked the horse over critically. “Aire you goin’ right on through the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nigh two days’ journey!”