nybody can tell a Texan. Where I came from there were a good many
pioneers an' ranchers from the old Lone Star state. I've worked for
several. An', come to think of it, I'd rather hear a Texas girl talk
than anybody."

"Did y'u know many Texas girls?" she inquired, turning again to face
him.

"Reckon I did--quite a good many."

"Did y'u go with them?"

"Go with them? Reckon you mean keep company. Why, yes, I guess I
did--a little," laughed Jean. "Sometimes on a Sunday or a dance once
in a blue moon, an' occasionally a ride."

"Shore that accounts," said the girl, wistfully.

"For what?" asked Jean.

"Y'ur bein' a gentleman," she replied, with force. "Oh, I've not
forgotten. I had friends when we lived in Texas.... Three years ago.
Shore it seems longer. Three miserable years in this damned country!"

Then she bit her lip, evidently to keep back further unwitting
utterance to a total stranger. And it was that biting of her lip that
drew Jean's attention to her mouth. It held beauty of curve and
fullness and color that could not hide a certain sadness and
bitterness. Then the whole flashing brown face changed for Jean. He
saw that it was young, full of passion and restraint, possessing a
power which grew on him. This, with her shame and pathos and the fact
that she craved respect, gave a leap to Jean's interest.

"Well, I reckon you flatter me," he said, hoping to put her at her ease
again. "I'm only a rough hunter an' fisherman-woodchopper an' horse
tracker. Never had all the school I needed--nor near enough company of
nice girls like you."

"Am I nice?" she asked, quickly.

"You sure are," he replied, smiling.

"In these rags," she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that
thrilled him. "Look at the holes." She showed rips and worn-out
places in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed a
round, brown arm. "I sew when I have anythin' to sew with.... Look at
my skirt--a dirty rag. An' I have only one other to my name.... Look!"
Again a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and giving the lie to
her action. But shame could not check her violence now. A dammed-up
resentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She lifted the ragged
skirt almost to her knees. "No stockings! No Shoes! ... How can a
girl be nice when she has no clean, decent woman's clothes to wear?"

"How--how can a girl..." began Jean. "See here, miss, I'm beggin' your
pardon for--sort of stirri