"Let's have it," said he, smiling at her seriousness.
She hesitated, at a loss for words, finally blurting out what was in her mind.
"My father is a squaw-man, Mr. Stark, and I've been raised to think that such things are customary."
"They are, in all new countries," he assured her.
"But how are they regarded when civilization comes along?"
"Well, they aren't regarded, as a rule. Squaw-men are pretty shiftless, and people don't pay much attention to them. I guess if they weren't they wouldn't be squaw-men."
"My father isn't shiftless," she challenged, at which he remained silent, refusing to go on record. "Isn't a half-breed just as good as a white?"
"Look here," said he. "What are you driving at?"
"I'm a 'blood,'" she declared, recklessly, "and I want to know what people think of me. The men around here have never made me feel conscious of it, but—"
"You're afraid of these new people who are coming, eh? Well, don't worry about that, Miss. It wouldn't make any difference to me or to any of your friends whether you were red, white, black, or yellow."