“She did about an hour ago.”
“Is your mother a widder?”
“Lookin’ for widders?”
“I likes widders. It happens frequent that widders are sociable inclined—especially if they are hard up,” he added insolently.
“Oh, you’re ridin’ the grub-line?” Her insolence equalled his own.
“Not yet;” and he took from his pocket a thick roll of banknotes.
“Blood money? Some sheep-herder’s month’s pay, I guess.”
“You’re a good guesser.”
“Not very—you’re easy.”
The girl’s dislike for Smith was as unreasoning and violent as was her liking for the excitable little man whom she had helped up the hill, and whose wagon was now rumbling close at her horse’s heels.