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She asked Rodney had she not been a good squaw to him. And Rodney, who at best was but a poltroon, could only repeat: "You got to keep away from here. It’s the white man’s law—one squaw for one man." From within came the sound of Sally’s lamentation as she called for her father and brother to take her from the squaw and contamination. Warren Rodney was a man of few words.
The spring after Sally’s marriage they set forth for California, the year following for New Mexico, and still sighed for new worlds to visit. They were happier now that Sally, the one element of discontent, had been removed from their perennial journeying by the merciful dispensation of marriage.
The Tumlin family did not remain long enough in the Black Hill country to witness Sally’s failure as the wife of a pioneer. The restlessness of the "settler," if the paradox be permissible, was in the marrow of their bones. The makeshifts of the wagon, the adventures of the road, were the only home they craved.
Warren Rodney had almost forgotten the sorceries of the women of his people; he had lived so long with a brown woman, who spread no silken snares. Sally’s blushes stirred a multitude of dead things—the wiles of pale women, all strength in weakness, fragile flowers for tender handling—the squaw had grown as withered as a raisin.
His talk to Sally was largely of his prospects. Sally knew that the world owed her "a home of her own"; and why should she let a squaw keep her from it? Sally’s mother giggled when consulted. She plainly regarded the squaw as a rival of her daughter. The ethics of the case, as far as Mrs. Tumlin was concerned, was merely a question of white skin against brown, and which should carry the day.
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