“No-just a window, thank you,” she laughed.
Bud thought the laugh did not go very deep. “Jerry wants to talk to you. He's the whitest of the lot, if you can call that—” she stopped abruptly, put out a hand to the door, gave him a moment to look into her deep, troubled eyes, and closed the door gently but inexorably in his face.
Jerry was standing at the corner of the house smoking negligently. He waited until Bud had come close alongside him, then led the way slowly down the path to the corrals.
“I thought I heard the horses fighting,” he remarked. “There was a noise down this way.”
“Is that why you called me outside?” asked Bud, who scorned subterfuge.
“Yeah. I saw you wasn't dancing or singing or playing the piano—and I knew Honey'd likely be looking you up to do one or the other, in a minute. She sure likes you, Bud. She don't, everybody that comes along.”
Bud did not want to discuss Honey, wherefore he made no reply, and they walked along in silence, the cool, heavy darkness grateful after the oil lamps and the heat of crowded rooms. As they neared the corrals a stable door creaked open and shut, yet there was no wind. Jerry halted, one hand going to Bud's arm. They stood for a minute, and heard the swish of the bushes behind the corral, as if a horse were passing through. Jerry turned back, leading Bud by the arm. They were fifty feet away and the bushes were still again before Jerry spoke guardedly.
“I guess I made a mistake. There wasn't nothing,” he said, and dropped Bud's arm.
Bud stopped. “There was a man riding off in the brush,” he said bluntly, “and all the folks that came to the dance rode in through the front gate. I reckon I'll just take a look where I left my saddle, anyway.”
“That might have been some loose stock,” Jerry argued, but Bud went back, wondering a little at Jerry's manner.