They talked of the coming snowstorm, and the advisability of holding the sheep on the bed-ground if it should be a bad one; of the trip to town that he was contemplating; of the coyote that was bothering and the possibility of trapping him. There was no dearth of topics of mutual interest. Nevertheless, Mormon Joe knew that she was holding something in reserve and wondered at this reticence. It came finally when they had finished and still lingered at the table.
“Who do you suppose I met to-day when I was hunting horses?”
“Teeters?” Mormon Joe was tearing a leaf from his book of cigarette papers.
“Guess again.”
He shook his head.
“Can’t imagine.”
She announced impressively:
“Mrs. Toomey!”
He was distributing tobacco from the sack upon the crease in the paper with exactitude. He made no comment, so Kate said with increased emphasis:
“She was crying!”