He settled himself anew with his other shoulder
against the rock, and muttered something in Spanish--that strange, musical
talk which Annie-Many-Ponies could not understand. And still she watched him,
and exulted in his impatience for her coming, and wondered if it would always
be lovelight which she would see in his eyes.
He was not of her race, though in her pride she thought him favored when she
named him akin to the Sioux. He was not of her race, but he was tall and he
was straight, he was dark as she, he was strong and brave and he bad many
cattle and much broad acreage. Annie-Many-Ponies smiled upon him in the dark
and was glad that she, the daughter of a chief of the Sioux, had been found
good in his sight.
Five minutes, ten minutes. The coyote, yap-yap-yapping in the broken land
beyond them, found his mate and was silent. Ramon Chavez, waiting in the
shadow of the ledge, muttered a Mexican oath and stepped out into the
moonlight and stood there, tempted to return to his camp--for he, also, had
pride that would not bear much bruising.
Annie-Many-Ponies waited. When he muttered again and threw his cigarette from
him as though it had been something venomous; when he turned his face toward
his own tents and took a step forward, she laughed softly, a mere whisper of
amusement that might have been a sleepy breeze stirring the bushes somewhere
near.
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