“What the devil is it to you?” he demanded roughly. “I want that fire, madam, and I want it now. I rather think I knew when I want to brand without asking your advice.”
Val curved her lips scornfully, shrugged and obeyed She was used to that sort of thing, and she did not mind very much. He had brutalized by degrees, and by degrees she had hardened. He could rouse no feeling now but contempt.
“If you'll kindly wait until I put back the supper,” she said coldly. “I suppose in your zeal one need not sacrifice your food; you're still rather particular about that. I observe.”
Manley was leading his horse to the stable, and, though he answered something, the words were no more than a surly mumble.
“He's been drinking again,” Val decided dispassionately, on the way to the house. “I suppose he carried a bottle in his pocket—and emptied it.”
She was not long; there was a penalty of profane reproach attached to delay, however slight, when Manley was in that mood. She had the fire going and the VP iron heating by the time he had stabled and fed his horse, and had driven the calves into the smaller pen. He drove a big, line-backed heifer into a corner, roped and tied her down with surprising dexterity, and turned impatiently.
“Come! Isn't that iron ready yet?”
Val, on the other side of the fence, drew it out and inspected it indifferently.
“It is not, Mr. Fleetwood. If you are in a very great hurry, why not apply your temper to it—and a few choice remarks?”
“Oh, don't try to be sarcastic—it's too pathetic. Kick a little life into that fire.”