At sight of Necia the little ones shouted gleefully and scampered forward, climbing over her like half-grown puppies.

They were boy and girl, both brown as Siwashes, with eyes like jet beads and hair that was straight and coarse and black.

At a glance Burrell knew them for "breeds," and evidently the darker half was closer to the surface now, for they choked, gurgled, stuttered, and coughed in their Indian tongue, while Necia answered them likewise.

At a word from her they turned and saw him, then, abashed at the strange splendor of his uniform, fell silent, pressing close to her.

The squaw, also, seemed to resent his presence, for, after a lowering glance, she drew the shawl closer about her head, and, leaving the trail, slunk out of sight around the corner of the store.
Burrell looked up at his companion's clear-cut, delicate face, at the wind-tanned cheeks, against which her long braids lay like the blue-black locks of an Egyptian maid, then at her warm, dark eyes, in which was a hint of the golden light of the afternoon sun.