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Updated: June 9, 2025
The fire cracked so loudly I became aware there was ominous silence among the loungers of the camp. They were listening as well as watching. Up to this time I had not thought they were paying the slightest attention to us. Laplante was not answering, and when I faced him suddenly I found the squaw's eyes fastened on his, holding them whether he would or no, just as she had mine. "Eh! man?"
Blyth, gallantly attacking the squaw's mixture this time without any intermediate assistance from the spoon. "All our good healths!" chimed in Zack, draining his glass to the bottom. "Really, Mat, it's quite bewildering to see how your dormant social qualities are waking up, now you're plunged into the vortex of society. What do you say to giving a ball here next?
But mebbe you will. Say, Aim-sa, I'll teach it ye. I'll teach it ye real well, gal. You'll be my squaw, an' we'll light right out o' here. I've got half share in our pile, an' it ain't a little. Jest say right here as ye'll do it, an' I'll fix things, an' hitch up the dogs." Nick paused in his eloquence. The squaw's eyes danced with delight, and he read the look to suit himself.
That's 'Squaw's Mixture," replied Mat with perfect calmness and deliberation. Zack began to laugh uproariously. Mat became more inflexibly grave than ever. Mr. Blyth felt that he was growing interested on the subject of the Squaw's Mixture. He stirred it diffidently with his spoon, and asked with great curiosity how his host first learnt to make it.
"Injun moccasins," he said. "Guess so, by the seamin'." "'Tain't a buck neche, neither." "No." There was an impressive pause, and the silent land seemed weighted down as with an atmosphere of gloomy presage. Nick broke it, and his voice had in it a harsh ring. The fire of passion was once more alight in his eyes. "It's a squaw's," he added.
But Geoffrey for the first time felt his wife's exoticism, not from the romantic and charming side, but from the ugly, sinister, and horrible word inferior side of it. Had he married a coloured woman? Was he a squaw's man? A sickening vision of chonkina at Nagasaki rose before his imagination.
The little squaw answered, "My husband be very sick with consumption, most dead." "Where did you get that pretty ring on your finger?" said Mrs. Godfrey to the Indian woman. Margaret Godfrey had noticed the ring on the squaw's finger, sparkling in the sunlight, as she pointed her small brown hand up the river in the direction of her home.
He climbed the loose sand of the grade and waved. The response was immediate. At a jerk of the squaw's hand her horse cantered down to where her lord had taken his stand. And for a time they sat side by side watching the distant welcome of the white man. Suddenly the Indian's heels flew out and in, and the odd little broncho wheeled on its hind legs and swung into a wide circle.
As Oliver appeared, the wretched Indian was half-dragged, half-pushed before him. The examination was short. The sentries who had tramped the high board walk vouched for The Squaw's constant presence in the stockade throughout the whole of the required time. The guards at the sliding-panel lent corroboration.
Every day Ralph would clean up the dugout and leave it ready for the White Squaw's occupation when she returned. Every article of furniture had its allotted place, the place which she had selected. With the utmost deliberation he would order everything, and never had their mountain home been so tenderly cared for. Then Nick would come.
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