You'd of
called her a superblonde, I guess. And haggard and wrinkled in the face;
but she took good care of that, too--artist's materials.
"You know old Pete--that Indian you see cutting up wood back on the
place. Pete took a long look at her and named her the Painted Desert.
You always hear say an Indian hasn't got any sense of humour. I don't
know; Pete was sure being either a humourist or a poet. However, this
here lady handed me a new one about my business. She thought it was
merely an outdoor sport. I never could get that out of her head. Even
when she left she says she knows it's ripping good sport, but it's such
a terrific drain on one's income, and I must be quite mad about ranching
to keep it up. I said, yes; I got quite mad about it sometimes, and let
it go at that. What was the use?"
A voiceless interval while we climbed a trail to the timbered bench
where fence posts were being cut by half a dozen of the Arrowhead
forces. Two of these were swiftly detached and bade to repair the break
in the fence by which one Timmins was now profiting, the entire six
being first regaled with a brief but pithy character analysis of the
offender, portraying him as a loathsome biological freak; headless, I
gathered, and with the acquisitive instincts of a trade rat.
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