"Don't turn your head."
"I can't turn," I answered; "but I know who it is."
She rode up alongside, where I could see her; and fair enough she was to
look upon, and glad enough I was to look. She was thinner now with this
prairie life, and browner, and the ends of her hair were still
yellowing, like that of outdoors men. She still was booted and gloved
after the fashion of civilization, and still elsewise garbed in the
aboriginal costume, which she filled and honored graciously. The metal
cylinders on her leggins rattled as she rode.
"You ought not to ride," she said. "You are pale."
"You are beautiful," said I; "and I ride because you are beautiful."
Her eyes were busy with her gloves, but I saw a sidelong glance. "I do
not understand you," she said, demurely.
"I could not sit back there in the wagon and think," said I. "I knew
that you would be riding before long, and I guessed I might, perhaps,
talk with you."
She bit her lip and half pulled up her horse as if to fall back. "That
will depend," was her comment. But we rode on, side by side, knee to
knee.
Many things I had studied before then, for certain mysteries had come to
me, as to many men, who wish logically to know the causes of great
phenomena.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214