“It’s got a name called French Lilies,” she said. “Oh, Charley!” They clung together a moment like mournful shadows. He was crying a little, the wet tears fell on her chin, She cried herself when he’d gone, she didn’t know why, But when she thought of the scent with the silver stopper She felt more happy. She went to make the next bed.

Luke Breckenridge, washing his shirt in a muddy pool, Chewed on a sour thought. Only yesterday He had seen the team creak by toward Pollet’s Hotel With that damn little rat-eyed peddler driving his mules As if he was God Almighty. He conjured up A shadow-Shippy before him to hate and bruise As he beat his shirt with a stone. “If we-uns was home, I could just lay for him and shoot him out of the bresh, Goin’ to see my girl with his lousy mules. Tryin’ to steal my girl with his peddler’s talk!”