To The Last Man | Page 9

attract her attention.
"Put on y'ur hat, stranger. . . . Shore I can't recollect when any man
bared his haid to me. "She uttered a little laugh in which surprise and
frankness mingled with a tint of bitterness.
Jean sat down with his back to a pine, and, laying the sombrero by his

side, he looked full at her, conscious of a singular eagerness, as if he
wanted to verify by close scrutiny a first hasty impression. If there had
been an instinct in his meeting with Colter, there was more in this. The
girl half sat, half leaned against a log, with the shiny little carbine
across her knees. She had a level, curious gaze upon him, and Jean had
never met one just like it. Her eyes were rather a wide oval in shape,
clear and steady, with shadows of thought in their amber-brown depths.
They seemed to look through Jean, and his gaze dropped first. Then it
was he saw her ragged homespun skirt and a few inches of brown, bare
ankles, strong and round, and crude worn-out moccasins that failed to
hide the shapeliness, of her feet. Suddenly she drew back her
stockingless ankles and ill-shod little feet. When Jean lifted his gaze
again he found her face half averted and a stain of red in the gold tan of
her cheek. That touch of embarrassment somehow removed her from
this strong, raw, wild woodland setting. It changed her poise. It
detracted from the curious, unabashed, almost bold, look that he had
encountered in her eyes.
"Reckon you're from Texas," said Jean, presently.
"Shore am," she drawled. She had a lazy Southern voice, pleasant to
hear. "How'd y'u-all guess that?"
"Anybody can tell a Texan. Where I came from there were a good
many pioneers an' ranchers from the old Lone Star state. I've worked
for several. An', come to think of it, I'd rather hear a Texas girl talk than
anybody."
"Did y'u know many Texas girls?" she inquired, turning again to face
him.
"Reckon I did--quite a good many."
"Did y'u go with them?"
"Go with them? Reckon you mean keep company. Why, yes, I guess I
did--a little," laughed Jean. "Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance once in
a blue moon, an' occasionally a ride. "

"Shore that accounts," said the girl, wistfully.
"For what? " asked Jean.
"Y'ur bein' a gentleman," she replied, with force. Oh, I've not forgotten.
I had friends when we lived in Texas. . . . Three years ago. Shore it
seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned country!"
Then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting utterance
to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip that drew Jean's
attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve and fullness and color
that could not hide a certain sadness and bitterness. Then the whole
flashing brown face changed for Jean. He saw that it was young, full of
passion and restraint, possessing a power which grew on him. This,
with her shame and pathos and the fact that she craved respect, gave a
leap to Jean's interest.
"Well, I reckon you flatter me," he said, hoping to put her at her ease
again. "I'm only a rough hunter an' fisherman-woodchopper an' horse
tracker. Never had all the school I needed--nor near enough company
of nice girls like you."
"Am I nice?" she asked, quickly.
"You sure are," he replied, smiling.
"In these rags," she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that
thrilled him. "Look at the holes." She showed rips and worn-out places
in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed a round,
brown arm. "I sew when I have anythin' to sew with. . . . Look at my
skirt--a dirty rag. An' I have only one other to my name. . . . Look!"
Again a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and giving the lie to
her action. But shame could not check her violence now. A dammed-up
resentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She lifted the ragged
skirt almost to her knees. "No stockings! No Shoes! . . . How can a girl
be nice when she has no clean, decent woman's clothes to wear?"
"How--how can a girl. . ." began Jean. "See here, miss, I'm beggin' your

pardon for--sort of stirrin' you to forget yourself a little. Reckon I
understand. You don't meet many strangers an' I sort of hit you
wrong--makin' you feel too much--an' talk too much. Who an' what you
are is none of my business. But we met. . . . An' I reckon somethin' has
happened--perhaps more to me than to you. . . . Now let me put you
straight about clothes an' women.