"Why for?"
"So you could go and be a pony soldier."
"What's that?"
"You saw the red coat, and your eyes were so hungry! You followed him like a dog, and forgot poor little Rain. Threw out your chest, so! and your shoulders, hump! And your eyes, ever so far away. Then I call, and you yawn, so! You're tired of Rain, and playing Indians, eh?"
I made shamefaced objections, blushing hot all over as I realized at once that what Rain said was true.
I wonder if other men feel as I do. I can not look unmoved at a pretty woman, and yet the sight of the British scarlet excites me more than anything else I know of. To speak to a man who wears it makes me catch my breath. Equally strong is the appeal to my senses of revolvers, cartridge belts, long boots, skin clothes or any gear of horsemanship or wild life. To see these things makes my heart leap, to use them is a lasting enjoyment, whereas I have looked on big stacks of gold, or silver, or treasures of diamonds, without the least emotion.
As soon as Rain spoke, I was sick of Indians. Life was impossible outside the mounted police.
"I only try," she mimicked my voice when I talked to the Brat, "and take so plenty trouble to keep you out of meeschief!"
"And if I go for a soldier, what about you?" I asked.
"Me?" she sighed. "Oh, I go catch poor Tail-Feathers. He got no beef."