Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered down the street, passing the hitch-rack and getting their first glance at the feminine members of the Hawkworth household. Hashknife looked sharply at the older woman. He was familiar with the tribes of the Northwest, and it seemed homelike to see a familiar face again.
Torres was talking to Wanna, who turned away from him and looked at Hashknife. He had seen many half-breed girls, but none so pretty as Wanna Hawkworth. Lucy spoke sharply to the girl and started for the store; but Torres laughed and tried to detain Wanna.
“Let her go,” said Torres not unpleasantly. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to talk to you, Wanna.”
“You no talk now,” said Lucy flatly. “Come, Wanna.” The girl started to walk around Torres, but the Mexican again blocked her. He seemed so persistent in forcing his attentions upon her that Hashknife stopped and walked toward them. The girl looked at Hashknife, who limped up within a few feet of Torres.
Garcia had halted near the end of the hitch-rack, rolling a cigarette, and evidently enjoying the scene—until Sleepy moved in beside him, resting one arm on the top pole of the rack and squinting into the half-breed Apache’s face.
Torres turned his head and looked at Hashknife, and as he did so, Wanna stepped past him and hurried to join her mother. Torres’ face flushed slightly, and his eyes narrowed.
“I just wondered,” said Hashknife slowly, half-apologetically, “if you had a match, pardner.”
Torres’ hand went to his pocket, but came away empty. He realized that Hashknife did not want a match. He turned his head and looked at Garcia, who was scowling at Sleepy.
“You want a match, eh?” said Torres slowly. “My friend, I am very sorry, but I have none.”
“Thassall right,” said Hashknife. “Much obliged just the same.”