family. We been pickin' fur your uncle a good many years. You like livin' here?"
"Yes," said Vale, "and I'm very glad to see you. The strawberries need your attention, I think."
"We get something to eat now, and then me and the other men start in. The women will want the rest of the day fur gittin' settled." His dark eyes rested indulgently on the group of women and girls, who were already lighting a fire in the stove and unpacking bread, bacon, and bottles of pickles from a basket.
There was a grave dignity about the old man that pleased Derek. His rugged, bronze face, high, deeply lined forehead surmounted by a thatch of thick iron-grey hair gave no evidence of racial degeneration. The women, too, were attractive, plump, round-faced, with soft, quick movements and shy, sidelong glances at him. The young men had disappeared inside the shack, but one of them now came out and Solomon motioned him to approach.
"This is Jammery," he announced with a wave of his dark hand on which shone a silver ring. Jammery held out his hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Vale," he said in a soft voice.
Vale took the proffered hand. It was small, very smooth, and limp. He returned his own to his pocket after the contact.
"Are you a son or son-in-law?" he asked, the old man having been called away by his wife.
"Neither." Jammery stroked his slender, black mustache. "I'm no relation to these people. I've just thrown my lot in with theirs for a while. I'm not much of an Indian."
"No, I see that." He was indeed, only olive in complexion. "You speak English well."
Jammery gave a shrug. "I can scarcely speak Indian at all. But I know what they say."
