He stood still though, and waited to see who was coming that way--since travelers on that trail were few enough to be noticeable.
In a minute more a fat old squaw rounded the spruce grove and shied off startled when she glimpsed Bud.

Bud grunted and started on, and the squaw stepped clear of the faintly defined trail to let him pass.
Moreover, she swung her shapeless body around so that she half faced him as he passed.

Bud's lips tightened, and he gave her only a glance.

He hated fat old squaws that were dirty and wore their hair straggling down over their crafty, black eyes.

They burlesqued womanhood in a way that stirred always a smoldering resentment against them.