sombreros and cattle and dust and distance, and there’s nothing else
here."

"Where I come from it’s just the other way—too many petticoats and
hat-pins."

The horseman who was no horseman dropped Miss Carmichael’s hand and went
into the house. Mary wondered if she ought to have been more cordial.

From the back door came Leander, with dishcloths, which he began to hang
on the line in a dumb, driven sort of way.

"Who is she?" asked Mary.

"Her?" he interrogated, jerking his head in the direction of the house.
"The postmistress, Judith Rodney; yes, that’s her name." He dropped his
voice in the manner of one imparting momentous things. "She never wears a
skirt ridin’, any more than a man."

Mary felt that she was tempting Leander into the paths of gossip,
undoubtedly his besetting sin, but she could not resist the temptation to
linger. He had disposed of his last dish-cloth, and he withdrew the
remaining clothes-pin from his mouth in a way that was pathetically
feminine.

"She keeps the post-office here, since Mrs. Dax lost the job, and boards
with us; p’r’aps it’s because she is my wife’s successor in office, or
p’a’ps it’s jest the natural grudge that wimmin seem to harbor agin each
other, I dunno, but they don’t sandwich none."