"Son," said old Auberry to me, after a time, as we trudged along up the
bank, stumbling over roots and braided grasses, "that was a almighty
fine lookin' gal we brung along with us there."
"I didn't notice," said I.
"No," said Auberry, solemnly, "I noticed you didn't take no notice; so
you can just take my judgment on it, which I allow is safe. Are you a
married man?"
"Not yet," I said.
"You might do a heap worse than that gal," said Auberry.
"I suppose you're married yourself," I suggested.
"Some," said Auberry, chuckling in the dark. "In fact, a good deal, I
reckon. My present woman's a Shoshone--we're livin' up Horse Creek,
below Laramie. Them Shoshones make about the best dressers of 'em all."
"I don't quite understand--"
"I meant hides. They can make the best buckskin of any tribe I know." He
walked on ahead in the dark for some time, before he added irrelevantly,
"Well, after all, in some ways, women is women, my son, and men is men;
that bein' the way this world is made just at these here present times.
As I was sayin', that's a powerful nice lookin' gal."
I shuddered in my soul. I glanced up at the heavens, studded thick with
stars.
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