Her squaw! She called me a squaw! Me! I jumped up and down in my fury.
"See," Rain shrieked. "My squaw is dancing! Look!"
"How dare you!" I shouted at her.
"Boy-drunk-in-the-morning," her eyes were dancing with fun, "I'm saving your life, you silly."
"Mind your own business!"
"See!" She pointed at a gaunt, middle-aged Indian in a gray slop suit, who rode along the sky-line seeking a way down the cliffs. "There," she said. "My man."
It was certainly very awkward.
"I am his woman," she said demurely, then tossing her head with a flash of royal pride, "and he's my man! He comes now to take me to his lodge."
"But what right had the fellow to shoot me? Confound his cheek, he has shot me!"
"Not much," she caressed the long wale carved in my shoulder. Then she gabbled so quickly in her sweet liquid speech, that I could only just catch flying words.