“Thought your father was dead; thought you was an orphin,” said Ira, speaking as one aggrieved.
“I thought so, too, but he made it plain to me that it wasn’t so.”
“Deserted your mother, eh?” Ira did not mince matters.
Louisa felt that she must be on the defensive. “He didn’t go for to do it. He heard we was both dead and we heard the same of him. He was wounded, you know.”
“Wounded,” Ira gave a snort. “When? Where?”
“You needn’t say he wasn’t,” said Louisa, suddenly aggressive. “It was back there when there was trouble before with Mexico, and he fit for Texas.”
“I believe he did fight. It appears to me I have heerd he did,” put in Bud, giving Ira a significant look. “So, he’s your dad. Well, they say old Cy can always tell which side his bread is buttered on, and that he ain’t so po’ly off.”
This encouragement had the effect of producing a certain warmth of manner in Louisa’s greeting of her father as he came stiffly up. The red scar on his forehead was still noticeable when he took off his hat.
“What ye been doing to yerself, Cy?” said Bud whose attention was attracted by the scar.
“Oh, nothing much,” returned Cyrus, pulling a straggling lock over the wound. “Got to foolin’ around in the dark and scraped my blamed head agin a tree.”