"I don't bet, and my name isn't Johnny. Then you're the woman who
stabbed Dick Curson over at Lagrange's?"

She became defiant again.

"That's me, all the time. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. And you used to dance at the Alhambra?" She whisked the shawl
from her shoulders, held it up like a scarf, and made one or two steps
of the sembicuacua. There was not the least gayety, recklessness, or
spontaneity in the action; it was simply mechanical bravado. It was so
ineffective, even upon her own feelings, that her arms presently dropped
to her side, and she coughed embarrassedly. "Where's that whiskey,
pardner?" she asked.

The young man turned toward the tree he had just quitted, and
without further words assisted her to mount to the cavity. It was an
irregular-shaped vaulted chamber, pierced fifty feet above by a shaft or
cylindrical opening in the decayed trunk, which was blackened by smoke,
as if it had served the purpose of a chimney. In one corner lay a
bearskin and blanket; at the side were two alcoves or indentations, one
of which was evidently used as a table, and the other as a cupboard.
In another hollow, near the entrance, lay a few small sacks of flour,
coffee, and sugar, the sticky contents of the latter still strewing
the floor. From this storehouse the young man drew a wicker flask of
whiskey, and handed it, with a tin cup of water, to the woman. She waved
the cup aside, placed the flask to her lips, and drank the undiluted
spirit. Yet even this was evidently bravado, for the water started
to her eyes, and she could not restrain the paroxysm of coughing that