Laughing Bill Hyde | Page 8

minute; if I hadn't pried you apart they'd 'a'
sewed sawdust up inside of you like you was a doll. He had the old
bone-handled skinner in his mit; that's why I let go of him. Laughing
Bill! Take it from me, boys, you better walk around him like he was a
hole in the ice."
It may have been the memory of that heavy whip handle, it may have
been the moral effect of stray biographical bits garnered here and there
around the gambling-table, or it may have been merely a high and
natural chivalry, totally unsuspected until now, which prompted
Petersen to treat Ponatah with a chill and formal courtesy when he
returned from St. Michaels. At any rate, the girl arrived in Nome with
nothing but praise for the mail-man. Pete Petersen, so she said, might
have his faults, but he knew how to behave like a perfect gentleman.
Ponatah took up her new duties with enthusiasm, and before a month
had passed she had endeared herself to her employers, who secretly
assured Doctor Thomas that they had discovered a treasure and would
never part with her. She was gentle, patient, sweet, industrious; the
children idolized her. The Indian girl had never dreamed of a home like
this; she was deliriously happy.
She took pride in discharging her obligations; she did not forget the
men who had made this wonder possible. They had rented a little cabin,
and, after the fashion of men, they make slipshod efforts at keeping
house. Since it was Ponatah's nature to serve, she found time somehow
to keep the place tidy and to see to their comfort.
Laughing Bill was a hopeless idler; he had been born to leisure and was
wedded to indigence, therefore he saw a good deal of the girl on her
visits. He listened to her stories of the children, he admired her new and
stylish clothes, he watched her develop under the influence of her
surroundings. Inasmuch as both of them were waifs, and beholden to
the bounty of others, thy had ties in common--a certain
mutuality--hence they came to know each other intimately.
Despite the great change in her environment, Ponatah remained in

many ways quite aboriginal. For instance, she was embarrassingly
direct and straightforward; she entirely lacked hypocrisy, and that
which puzzled or troubled her she boldly put into words. There came a
time when Bill discovered that Ponatah's eyes, when they looked at him,
were more than friendly, that most of the services she performed were
aimed at him.
Then one day she asked him to marry her.
There was nothing brazen or forward about the proposal; Ponatah
merely gave voice to her feelings in a simple, honest way that robbed
her of no dignity.
Bill laughed the proposal off. "I wouldn't marry the Queen of Sheby,"
said he.
"Why?"
"I ain't that kind of a bird, that's why."
"What kind of a bird are you?" Ponatah eyed him with grave curiosity.
"All men marry. I'm reading a great many books, and they're all about
love and marriage. I love you, and I'm pretty. Is it because I'm an
Indian--?"
"Hell! That wouldn't faze me, Kiddo. You skin the white dames around
this village. But you better cut out them books."
"I'd make you a good wife."
"Sure! You're aces. But I'd make a bum husband. I ain't got the breath
to blow out a candle." Mr. Hyde chuckled; the idea of marriage plainly
amused him. "How you know I ain't got a covey of wives?" he
inquired.
"Oh, I know!" Ponatah was unsmiling. "I'm simple, but I can see
through people. I can tell the good ones and the bad ones. You're a
good man, Billy."

Now this praise was anything but agreeable to Mr. Hyde, for above all
things he abhorred so-called "good" people. Good people were suckers,
and he prided himself upon being a wise guy, with all that was meant
thereby.
"You lay off of me, Kid," he warned, darkly, "and you muffle them
wedding bells. You can't win nothing with that line of talk. If I was
fifty inches around the chest, liked to work, and was fond of
pas'ment'ries I'd prob'ly fall for you, but I ain't. I'm a good man, all
right--to leave alone. I'll be a brother to you, but that's my limit." The
subject was embarrassing, so he changed it. "Say! I been thinking about
that claim of yours. Didn't you get no paper from that missionary?"
"No."
"Then his word's as good as yours."
"That's what the lawyer told me. I offered to give him half, but he
wouldn't touch the case."
"It was a dirty deal, but you better forget it."
"I'll try," the girl promised. "But I don't forget easily."
Laughing Bill's rejection of