The small pair of them were odd to behold, or so whispered the shop keep to his working wife. His wife in turn would just send a knowing glaze towards the couple, neither approving nor disapproving. It was too odd to have a stance on, at least for the worldly shopkeep's wife. 

Wasula on the other hand could feel the eyes pass over her and this cattle-boy. He seemed to not quite know what to do after saying he wished to speak with her. Curious. Had he expected for her to just go along with him? She supposed women of his kind might go along with him, as unmarried girls were often more compliant towards good looking young stags, no matter the culture. Her dark eyes looked him from boot to hat, lingering on his face.

He took a moment to compose himself and she waited patiently. He would let her by once he realized she would not talk to him. Wasula supposed as far as pale men went, this one was good looking, still fresh without many scars and not stinking of smoke or drink. Though she believed all white men usually fell into ugliness sooner or later. They had too many poisons that they partook of. Sickly women who were in the trade of only pleasures for what little coin they could garner, usually in the lofts above the sa-loon. Gun powder that stung the eyes and scarred the hands when fired too often. Drink and smoking too often... He would fall like many of them did.

His hand ran over his mouth and she watched with her dark eyes framed in even darker lashes. The startling green of his eyes, a color she had never seen before but reminded her of spring time rain in the plains and the color they washed the land with, made her just a bit more patient with him. He called her 'lady' and she blinked, the only show of surprise he might see on her impassive face.

Her brows arched a bit lower, her full lips turning down slightly. If he was mocking her, as was the pass time of many white men towards native women, he would not find her compliant in his humor. What he and his kind might find funny, she found insulting. And her people were proud and confident. Lifting her chin, dark eyes seeing him through her heavy lashes as her brows arched with indignation, the dark-haired woman stood strong and as tall as she could. Looking down on him with those deep eyes of hers, Wasula felt as though she stood above him and his cruel attempt at humor.

"I am not 'Dakota'," her voice wrapped around him slightly laced with the defense at being insulted, "I am La-ko-ta." She sounded it out slowly, as if speaking to a child. "I know my brother," she further went on, "I know what he does. I know where he does not sleep." Wasula leaned forward a bit, eyes locked on to the fresh-faced cowboy. "And why of would this man," she gestured to him with an angry elegant sweep of her fingers, "need this woman." Her hand then patted her collar bone.

She was clearly suspicious of him, thinking him one who wanted to seek his thrill in a tussle with an 'Indian'. Wasula was not amused. "Go you to your women of the sa-loon," she huffed proudly, "I am more. I do not need milk-faced boy's help." Her own little dig at him, calling him both a breast feeding baby and an unknowledge boy all in one sentence. She clearly didn't think much of him or his kin, but could she be blamed? The track record of his people was not one to inspire trust, especially from a Lakota young woman without her brother's protection.