e ded, I mean it. I will hav a stak
perty quick then I will show you this aint no josh. You no the rest,
good-by for this time.

Smith.
The perspiration stood out on his forehead, and he wiped it away with his
ink-stained fingers.

"Writin' is harder work nor shoein' a horse," he observed to Ling, and
added for the Indian woman's benefit, "I'm sendin' off to get me a pair of
them Angory saddle-pockets."

His explanation did not deceive the person for whom it was intended. With
the intuition of a jealous woman, she knew that he was writing a letter
which he would not have her see. She meant to know, if possible, to whom
he was writing, and what. Although she did not raise her eyes from her
work when he replaced the pen and ink, she did not let him out of her
sight. She believed that he had written to Dora, and she was sure of it
when, thinking himself unobserved, he crept to Dora's open window, outside
of the house, and dropped the letter into the top drawer of her bureau,
which stood close.

As soon as Smith was out of sight, she too crept stealthily to the open
window. A red spot burned on either swarthy cheek, and her aching heart
beat fast. She took the letter from the drawer, and, going toward the
creek, plunged into the willows, with the instinct of the wounded animal
seeking cover.

The woman could read a little--not much, but better than she could write.
She had been to the Mission when she was younger, and MacDonald had
labored patiently to teach her more. Now, concealed among the willows,
sitting cross-legged on the ground, she spelled out Smith's letter word by
word,

I love you. I hates everyboddy else when I think of you. I don't love no
other woman but you. Nor never did.

She read it slowly, carefully, each word sinking deep. Then she stroked
her hair with long, deliberate strokes, and read it again.

I don't love no other woman but you. Nor never did.

She laid the letter on the ground, and, folding her arms, rocked her body
to and fro, as though in physical agony. When she shut her lips they
trembled as they touched each other, but she made no sound. The wound in
her arm was beginning to heal. It itched, and she scratched it hard, for
the pain served as a kind of counter-irritant. A third time she read the
letter, stroking her hair incessantly with the long, deliberate strokes.
Then she folded it, and, reaching for a pointed s