“Mebbe not?” Lucy lowered her saucer and stared up at him. “You say that? Will a crow try to mate with an eagle, Big Medicine?”
He shifted his eyes from her face and looked away. She was but quoting his own words, words which had been spoken years before. But the squaw had not forgotten them.
“If the crow thinks he is an eagle,” he said softly.
“Wanna knows.”
Lucy got up from the table and began clearing away the dishes. Big Medicine watched her, leaning one big hand on the table. His blanket had fallen from his massive shoulders, exposing a torso that would have been a credit to any professional athlete. Perhaps age had slowed those rope-like muscles, but it had sapped little of their strength.
After a few moments he replaced his blanket and turned to the doorway.
“Wanna knows,” repeated Lucy, as if to herself. “But she is only a squaw. Squaw don’t count.”
She did not look at Big Medicine, but busied herself at the stove. For several moments he looked at her, and seemed about to speak, but changed his mind. His blanketed shoulders shrugged slightly, as he turned, ducked his head and went back into the living-room, where the loose boards creaked under his heavy tread, and the rocking chair squeaked a protest when he sat down.
CHAPTER III
TORRES TAKES A BATH
It was about noon when Hashknife and Sleepy awoke. Hashknife had slept well for the first time in several nights, but was still crippled. They dressed and went into the street. The stagedriver, Olsen, had slept in the same room with them, but had managed to dress without awakening them.