enty mo'."

But Wilhelmina shook her head.

"No!" she said, "you give that to my mother. Are those your girls down
there? Well, why don't you let them come up to the house? You no good--I
don't like bad Indians!"

She turned away from him, still frowning angrily, and strode on down to
the creek; but the daughters of Hungry Bill, in their groveling way,
seemed to share the low ideals of their father. They were tall and
sturdy girls, clad in breezy calico dresses and with their hair down
over their eyes; and as they gazed out from beneath their bangs a guilty
smile contorted their lips, a smile that made Wilhelmina writhe.

"What's the matter with you?" she snapped, and as the scared look came
back she turned on her heel and left them. What could one expect, of
course, from Hungry Bill's daughters after they had been guarded like
the slave-girls in a harem; but the joy of hearing from Wunpost was
quite lost in the fierce anger which the conduct of his messengers
evoked. He was up there, somewhere, and he had made another strike--the
most beautiful blue quartz in the world--but these renegade Shoshones
with their understanding smiles had quite killed the pleasure of it for
her. She returned to the house where Hungry Bill, in the kitchen, was
wolfing down a great pan of beans; but the sight of the old glutton with
his mouth down to the plate quite sickened her and drove her away.
Wunpost was up in the hills, and he had made a strike, but with that she
must remain content until he either came down himself or chose a more
highminded messenger.

Hungry Bill went on to Blackwater and came back with a load of supplies,
which he claimed he was taking to "Wunpo"; and, after he had passed up
the canyon, Wilhelmina strolled along behind him. At the mouth of
Corkscrew Gorge there was a great pool of water, overshadowed by a rank
growth of willows through whose tops the wild grapevines ran riot. Here
it had been her custom, during the heat of the day, to paddle along the
shallows or sit and enjoy the cool air. There was always a breeze at the
mouth of Corkscrew Gorge, and when it drew down, as it did on this day,
it carried the odors of dank caverns. In the dark and gloomy depths of
this gash through the hills the rocks were always damp and cold; and
beneath the great waterfalls, where the cloudbursts had scooped out
pot-holes, there was a delicious mist and spray. She dawdled by the
willows, then splashed on up the slippery trai