“I don’t reckon a gal like you could he’p any,” Jeff said doubtfully. His eye wandered toward his twin. “I reckon this is men’s business. I’ve got word that Huldy Spiller—or some say Huldy Bonbright—is over at Blatch’s cabin, and he’s got her shut up.”
Judith’s heart gave a great leap as of terror; the thing was out at last—people knew it. Then that heavily beating heart sank sickeningly; what difference to her, though all the world knew it? Yet she held to her trust.
“Oh, shore not, Jeff. You cain’t nigh talk to him about nothin’ like that,” she maintained. “Uncle Jep made me promise that nothin’ should be named to him to excite him.”
“Well, then,” pursued Jeff, “pappy not bein’ here, nor Wade, and Jim Cal over at Spiller’s, an’ the gal not havin’ no men folks in reach, me an’ Andy has got to look after this thing. Fact is, Blatch sent word that ef we wanted her we could come over and git her.”
“I don’t know as we do want her—I don’t know as we do,” put in Andy. “And we both promised pappy that we wouldn’t set foot on the land whilst Blatch had it rented.”
“Then ag’in,” debated Jeff—“Oh, no, buddy, we cain’t leave the gal thar. We’re plumb obliged to find out if she wants to come away, anyhow.”
Andy turned to his cousin.
“What do you say, Jude? Ort we to go?”
Judith locked her hands hard together and held down her head, fighting out her battle. She longed to say no. She longed to shout out that Huldah Spiller might take care of herself, since she had been so unwomanly as to run after men and bring all this trouble on them. What she did say, at the end of a lengthened struggle, was:
“Yes, I think both of you ort to go. Can it be did quiet? You got to think of her good name.”