“I’m treasurer and paymaster for the outfit,” she told Sally, satisfaction glinting in her keen gray eyes. “Me and Bill,” and she lifted a big, blue-barreled revolver from the faded green plush of the seat and twirled it unconcernedly on her thumb.
“Is business good?” Sally asked politely, as she edged fearfully into the small room.
“Might be worse,” Mrs. Bybee conceded grudgingly. “Sit down, child, I’m not going to shoot you. Well, I went calling this morning,” she added briskly, as she began to rake the stacks of coins into a large canvas bag.
“Oh!” Sally breathed, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. “Did you—find anything?”
Mrs. Bybee knotted a stout string around the gathered-up mouth of the bag, rose from her seat, lifted the green plush cushion, revealing a small safe beneath the seat. When she had stowed the bag away and twirled the combination lock, she rearranged the cushion and took her seat again, all without answering Sally’s anxious question.
“Reckon I’m a fool to let anyone see where I keep the coin,” she ridiculed herself. “But after making a blamed fool of myself this morning over them dresses your David give you, I guess I’d better try to do something to show you I trust you. You just keep your mouth shut about this safe, and there won’t be any harm done.”
“Of course I won’t tell,” Sally assured her earnestly. “But, please, did you find out anything?” She felt that she could not bear the suspense a minute longer.
“You let me tell this my own way, child,” Mrs. Bybee reproved her. “Well, you saw that missionary rig I had on this morning? It turned the trick all right. Lucky for you, this ain’t the fastest growing town in the state, even if that billboard across from the station does say so. I found the address you gave me, all right. Same number, same house. Four-or-five-room dump, that may have been a pretty good imitation of a California bungalow twelve years ago. All run-down now, with a swarm of kids tumbling in and out and sticking out their tongues at me when their ma’s back was turned. She said she’d lived there two years; moved here from Wisconsin. Didn’t know a soul in Stanton when she moved here, and hadn’t had time to get acquainted with a new baby every fourteen months.”
“Poor thing!” Sally murmured, finding pity in her heart for the bedraggled drudge Mrs. Bybee’s words pictured so vividly. But those too-numerous babies had a mother. What she wanted to know was—did she, Sally Ford, have a mother?
Then a memory, so long submerged that she did not realize that it existed in her subconscious mind, pushed up, spilled out surprisingly: “There was a big oak tree in the corner of the yard. I used to swing. Someone pushed the swing—someone—” she fumbled for more, but the memory failed.