“Marry, ye’re gittin’ awful purty,” he vouchsafed. “When I went ’way ye was thin’s a rail, but now ye’re han’some as a little red wagon. Ain’t ye got a kiss for me?”
“Not till you wash your face, you dirty thing,” she composedly answered. He grinned and wiped his mouth on a tattered sleeve much too big for him. “Where’d you git the clothes?” she demanded.
“Them?” He glanced down at threadbare coat, thin shirt, and ragged overalls. “Found ’em into fellers’ barns down yender. Hid my pen-clo’es into one feller’s hay. Purty smart, hey?”
“Smart! Don’t you know the officers’ll track you that way? They will, sure’s you’re livin’.”
“They’ll have a job findin’ me now I’ve got here,” he muttered, though plainly disconcerted. “’Less’n somebody blabs.”
Brown eyes and gray eyes switched to the quiet man who sat taking it all in.
“Don’t worry,” said he. “I haven’t seen you folks at all—either of you.”
After a narrow stare Steve nodded slightly. Not another word was spoken until the meagre meal was finished and the water-bag was totally empty. Then Marion took command of the situation.
“We’ll be goin’ now,” she stated, rising. “No, don’t come with us. Steve and me, we’ll go ’long by our own selves, and then you won’t know what’s ’come of us if anybody should ask you. We’re awful obliged to you, stranger, and we wish you good luck. G’by.”
“I’m not saying good-bye. I’m staying here, as I told you before. Maybe we’ll meet again.”