"And whar to?"
Jim looked at the desert steaming after the rain, hot as flame, reaching away all round for ever and ever. He looked at Curly's wound all swollen up, her face which had gone gaunt with pain and weakness. They were afoot, they were hunted, they had no place to hide.
"Whar do you propose to take me?" says Curly.
"I don't know," says Jim; "perhaps your people aren't so bad after all—anyway, they tried to keep you clean."
"And what's the use of that? D'ye think I want to be alone in the hull world—clean with no folks, no home? Why should I want to be different from my father, and all my tribe? Would I want to be safe while they're in danger? Would I want to play coward while they fight? Shucks! Father turned me out to grass onced at the Catholic Mission, and them priests was shorely booked right through to heaven. What's the use of my being thar, while the rest of my tribe is in hell? I dreamt last night I was in hell, carrying water to feed it to my wolves; I couldn't get a drop for myself—never a drop."
"Curly, I've got to save you—I must—I shall!"
She laughed at him. "You! Do you remember me at Holy Crawss when I punched cows for Chalkeye? I might ha' been thar still but for you."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Jim, I met up with yo' mother, and I didn't want to be bad any more when I seen her."
"She thought the world of you."