“Do you know, Mr. Davis, I have become so fascinated with tales of the cattle country that I feel almost as enthusiastic as my brother,” said Bess, brushing the stray lock of fluffy brown hair out of her eye. “Do you think,” she continued, “that I shall love the West as he does?”
“I hope so,” said Davis, with a swift glance.
“I already know what a cayuse is, and also a lariat, though I am not so sure as regards a teepee; still, if I remember correctly, it is something good to eat.”
Simultaneously both gentlemen burst forth in hearty laughter, and when Davis could speak he said: “I am afraid, Miss Fletcher, your appetite will be gone when you see or even smell one.”
Bess wrinkled her brow in perplexity. “Oh,” she said, “James has told me so many tales of the Indians and cowboys and all, that I scarcely know what to believe. Nevertheless, it won’t be long now before I shall have solved a few of the mysteries at least.”
Davis began carefully to roll a cigarette, shaping it daintily with his thumb and index fingers; then poising it carefully between his lips, he sought a match in his vest pocket and excused himself, hoping to meet them both very often during the summer. Bess watched him as he slowly sauntered toward the end of the car with a look of inquiry.
“I think I would like him better if he would look directly at one. Who is he, James? A cattleman or cowboy, or what is it you called them—oh, yes, squaw man?”
“You’ll have to guess again, Bess. He is Dave Davis, the Indian agent of the Flathead Reservation. He is probably on his way to the sub-agency at Ronan.”
She gave a little sigh in answer, and asked how long it would be before the train reached Selish.