"Look here! What ails you?" said the trader.
"What ails me?" she mocked. "Why, I'm neither white nor red; I'm not even a decent Indian. I'm a—a—" She shuddered. "You made me what I am. You didn't do me the justice even to marry my mother."
"Somebody's been saying things about you," said Gale, quietly, taking her by the shoulders. "Who is it? Tell me who it is."
"No, no! It's not that! Nobody has said anything to my face; they're afraid of you, I suppose, but God knows what they think and say to my back."
"I'll—" began the trader, but she interrupted him.
"I've just begun to realize what I am. I'm not respectable. I'm not like other women, and never can be. I'm a squaw—a squaw!"
"You're not!" he cried.
"It's a nice word, isn't it?"
"What's wrong with it?"
"No honest man can marry me. I'm a vagabond! The best I can get is my bed and board, like my mother."