“Huh,” grunted the half-breed, “the open eye sees game—for its owner’s fattening.”
“What are you two talkin’ about?” asked the slim boy whom Big Baston had so nearly murdered that day on the porch, “always talkin’ in that damned native tongue. Why don’t you learn white man’s talk, Minnie?”
The girl wheeled to him where he leaned in the kitchen door, and her comely dark face flushed with pleasure.
“Would you like me any better?”
“Sure,” he said, “make you seem a little whiter anyway.”
There was cruelty in the careless speech, and it did not miss its mark, though Minnie Pine’s dark eyes gave no sign.
“The young-green-tree-with-the-rising-sun-behind it may want to talk the white man’s tongue,” said old Josefa grimly, “but she’s a fool. All half-breeds are. They reap sorrow.”
The boy laughed and his face came the nearest to wholesome youth of any at Sky Line. It still held something of softness, of humorous tolerance and good temper, as if not all its heritage of good intent had been warped away to wickedness.
His blue eyes regarded the big girl with approval, passing over her sleek black hair that shone like a crow’s wing, her placid brow and unwavering dark eyes, her high cheeks and repressed thin lips.
“I’ll give you a kiss, Minnie,” he drawled, “for half that cream pie yonder.”