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Updated: September 10, 2025
It put first one leg and then the other out before it on the tiled floor, spreading wide the pinkey- grey claws. Its tail rose up behind it straight as the mast of a ship. With slow processional steps the cat walked towards the door. The old brown man drank down the yellow liquid and smacked his lips twice, loudly, meditatively.
So far as he could see, it in nowise differed from the arid plain across which they had ridden. It was a pebbly tract, covered with sagebrush and cacti, which dropped abruptly to a creek-bed that had no water in it. Filled with sudden misgivings, he asked feebly: "What's it good for?" "Look at the view!" said Pinkey, impatiently. "I can't eat scenery." "It'll be a great place for dry-farmin'."
"If there's anything in signs I ought to be turrible jealous the way my eyebrows grow together." "Aren't you?" indifferently. "Me jealous? Nobody could make me jealous, especially a worman." "You're lucky!" Wallie spoke with unnecessary emphasis. "It's an uncomfortable sensation." Pinkey shifted uneasily and picked a bit of bark off the corral pole.
Wallie looked at a crack big enough to swallow him and observed humorously: "I should judge so." "You see," Pinkey explained, enthusiastically, "bein' clost to the mountings, the snow lays late in the spring and all the moisture they is you git it." "I see." Wallie nodded comprehensively. "Why didn't you take it up yourself, Pinkey?" "Oh, I got to make a livin'."
The wheel horses followed, and some of the stout oak spokes splintered in the wheels as they jerked the coach over the rail. The pallid pair exchanged a quick glance of unutterable relief. The horses were still running but their speed was slackening as Pinkey swung them in a circle toward the town.
The light grew subdued with the approaching storm and Wallie commented upon the coolness. Then he went out in the dooryard and stood a moment. "The clouds are black as ink, and how still it is," he said, wonderingly. "There isn't a breath of air stirring." Pinkey was sitting on the floor oiling his saddle when he tilted his head suddenly, and listened.
His voice was hoarse as he gave the word. Wallie stood up and swung the long rawhide braided whip. At the same time Pinkey put all his failing strength on one line. As the roan felt the tremendous pull on his mouth and the whip-thongs stung his head and neck, he turned at a sharp angle, dragging his mate.
"He gets 'ringy' that feller." Canby's cold gray eyes glittered, though he said nothing of his intentions. Pinkey put up Wallie's silk tent and staked it, showed him how to hobble and picket his horse and to make baking-powder biscuit, and left him.
Followed an account of the deed of reckless courage for which Pinkey had been decorated, and the Smith boy told it so well that everyone's eyes had tears in them. Mrs. Appel, fumbling for her handkerchief, dropped her ball of yarn over the railing, where the cat wound it among the rose bushes so effectively that to disentangle it were an endless task.
Not that Pinkey cared. She had the instinct for property, the passionate desire to call something her own, an instinct that lay dormant and undeveloped while she lived among other people's belongings. Moreover, she had discovered a born talent for shopkeeping.
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