“I hate to see ye go, Bill.”
“Shore!” said Jackson. “I hate to go. Take keer yerself, Jim.”
The two Indian women had uncovered their faces and, gone inside the lodge. But old Jim Bridger sat down, back against a cottonwood, and watched the lopping figure of his friend jog slowly out into the desert. He himself was singing now, chanting monotonously an old Indian refrain that lingered in his soul from the days of the last rendezvous.
At length he arose and, animated by a sudden thought, sought out his tepee once more. Dang Yore Eyes greeted him with shy smiles of pride.
“Heap shoot, Jeem!” said she. “No kill-um. Why?”
She was decked now in her finest, ready to use all her blandishments on her lord and master. Her cheeks were painted red, her wrists were heavy with copper. On a thong at her neck hung a piece of yellow stone which she had bored through with an awl, or rather with three or four awls, after much labor, that very day.
Bridger picked up the ornament between thumb and finger. He said no word, but his fingers spoke.
“Other pieces. Where?”
“White man. Gone—out there.” She answered in the same fashion.
“How, cola!” she spoke aloud. “Him say, ‘How, cola,’ me.” She smiled with much pride over her conquest, and showed two silver dollars. “Swap!”