"For the love of Moses!" snapped Maw. "Didn't you get enough to eat yet?"
Behind her, Lark glanced appraisingly at the devastated table and grinned. The pile of chicken bones beside Bud's plate was enough, to say nothing of the remnant of pie with the whipped cream scraped off in streaks.
"For the time being, maybe; but I may possibly want to eat again, Maw, before Marge has me put in jail and incarcerated!" Bud was still badly in need of sleep, and Maw's tone had not been conciliating.
"I ain't responsible for that word, Bud Larkin. Margy used it herself, and if it don't meet with your approval, it's none of my funeral. Here's Lark, wantin' to know what you've been up to, and why you come draggin' your feet into the house this time of night. Are you goin' to take all them cookies, Bud? I can't make any more till I get some sour cream. I churned every bit that I had."
"You did? Fine! Bob's out in the hills, and fresh butter will go dandy with this bread. You know, Maw, there's only one real bread-maker in the world, and she's just about four feet high and cross as a she bear with toothache."
"I ain't no such a thing! Do you s'pose you could carry a pie if I wrapped it up good?"
"Sure. I'll carry it inside, however. Then I know it will be well wrapped. Lark may want to carry one. How about it, Lark? Want to go hunting with me, after I've had an hour or so of sleep?"
Lark hitched up his belt, picked up Maw and set her on a corner of the table. Then, ignoring her indignant protests, he began his preparations significantly in the gun closet, choosing what weapons he would take. Bud eyed him from under straight brows while he wrapped the bread in one of Maw's choicest dish towels which she kept for "comp'ny", when some range woman would insist upon helping her with the dishes.
"You won't need a shotgun—and I'll just omit that hour of sleep. Maw's pie is a real rejuvenator."
"It ain't no such a thing! Bud, ain't you goin' to tell what you've been up to or where you've been? My land, I never saw such carryin's on!"