“Jude, the man that told me that about Bonbright,” he said, speaking apparently on sudden impulse, “’lowed that the feller had left you—give ye the mitten. You’re a fool ef ye let that be said, when his betters is wantin’ ye.”
Without another word, without a glance, he turned and slouched swiftly away down the path behind the fringe of bushes by the creek side.
The baptising was over. Judith, crossing the stream, saw her uncle’s waggon, Beck and Pete already hitched to it, being loaded with Jim Cal and his tribe. Andy and Jeff were horseback with the Lusk girls. She hurried forward to join them and make ready for departure when, to her dismay, she encountered Drane at the foot of the slope coming toward her.
“Wasn’t that thar Blatchley Turrentine?” inquired the elder.
The girl nodded.
“I didn’t see him in the church,” Drane pursued.
“I reckon he wasn’t there,” assented Judith lifelessly, making as though to pass on.
“He jest came here to have speech with you, did he?” inquired the man, nervously, brushing his sandy whiskers with unquiet fingers.
“I reckon he did,” acknowledged Judith without coquetry, without interest.
“Jude!” burst out the widower, “I promised you I never would again ax you to wed; but I’m obliged to know ef you’re studyin’ about takin’ that feller.”