Years ago--yet not so many after all--the mothers of these squaws, and their
grandmothers, had walked backward and stooped with little branches in their
hands to wipe out the trail of their warriors and themselves to circumvent the
cunning of the enemy who pursued. So had they brushed out the trail when their
men had raided the ranchos of the first daring settlers, and had driven off
horses and cattle into the remoter wilderness.
And these, mind you, were the squaws and bucks whom you might meet any day on
the streets in Albuquerque, padding along the pavement and staring in at the
shop windows, admiring silken gowns with marked-down price tags, and
exclaiming over flaxen-haired dolls and bright ribbon streamers; squaws and
bucks who brought rugs and blankets to sell, and who would bargain with you in
broken English and smile and nod in friendly fashion if you spoke to them in
Spanish or paid without bickering the price they asked for a rug. You might
see them in the fifteen-cent store, buying cheap candy and staring in mute
admiration at all the gay things piled high on the tables. Remember that, when
I tell you what more they did out here in the wilderness.
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