I shook my head. Now in talkin' to her you forgot she was a child, 'cause she didn't talk broken like most of 'em do—nor she didn't think broken neither; but when you looked at her, little and slim an' purty as a picture, you couldn't help but wonder if she hadn't got her soul changed off with some one else, like what they say the Chinese believe. She had the same rules that I did for so many things that it floored me to understand how she got 'em that young, me havin' had to figger 'em out with a heap o' sweat.
"Was the letter to you?" I sez, gettin' around to facts.
"No, it wasn't; but I read it, an' I wisht I knew what it means."
"I ain't a-goin' to read it," sez I.
"You 're a coward," sez she.
"That's nothing," sez I; "if it wasn't for the cowards the' would be a heap o' vacant land in this country," sez I.
"I thought you was my friend," sez she, takin' back the letter an' holdin' it open in her hand. "If Spider Kelley could read he would read it for me."
"So would Hawkins, your pinto," sez I, grinnin'. "What you ought to do is to tell your Dad that you have the letter. If you don't tell him, I reckon I'll have to."
At first she was mad as hops, an' then she looked into my eyes an' laughed. "I'll dare you to," sez she. The' was some woman in her even then.
The' wasn't no way to bluff her, so I said serious, "Well, what do you intend to do about it?"