She opened her black eyes upon him, at this original proposition. Then she looked down at her torn dress. "I suppose this style of thing ain't very fancy, is it?" she said, with a forced laugh. "I think I know where to beg or borrow a change for you, if you can't get any," he replied simply. She stared at him again. "Are you a family man?" "No." She was silent for a moment. "Well," she said, "you can tell your girl I'm not particular about its being in the latest fashion." There was a slight flush on his forehead as he turned toward the little cupboard, but no tremor in his voice as he went on: "You'll find tea and coffee here, and, if you're bored, there's a book or two. You read, don't you--I mean English?" She nodded, but cast a look of undisguised contempt upon the two worn, coverless novels he held out to her. "You haven't got last week's 'Sacramento Union,' have you? I hear they have my case all in; only them lying reporters made it out against me all the time." "I don't see the papers," he replied curtly. "They say there's a picture of me in the 'Police Gazette,' taken in the act," and she laughed. He looked a little abstracted, and turned as if to go. "I think you'll do well to rest a while just now, and keep as close hid as possible until afternoon. The trail is a mile away at the nearest point, but some one might miss it and stray over here. You're quite safe if you're careful, and stand by the tree. You can build a fire here," he stepped under the chimney-like opening, "without its being noticed. Even the smoke is lost and cannot be seen so high." The light from above was falling on his head and shoulders, as it had on hers. She looked at him intently. "You travel a good deal on your figure, pardner, don't you?" she said, with a certain admiration that was quite sexless in its quality; "but I don't see how you pick up a living by it in the Carquinez Woods. So you're going, are you? You might be more sociable. Good-by." "Good-by!" He leaped from the opening. "I say, pardner!" He turned a little impatiently. She had knelt down at the entrance, so as to be nearer his level, and was holding out her hand. But he did not notice it, and she quietly withdrew it. "If anybody dropped in and asked for you, what name will they say?" He smiled. "Don't wait to hear." "But suppose _I_ wanted to sing out for you, what will I call you?" He hesitated. "Call me--Lo." "Lo, the poor Indian?" [The first word of Pope's familiar apostrophe is humorously used in the far West as a distinguishing title for the Indian.] "Exactly."