“Kester an’ Linton have sloped,” he told her as they rode away from the trees. “This climate was gettin’ unhealthy for them.”
“What makes folks act so foolish?” he questioned, later. “There ain’t no way to escape what’s got to be. Why can’t folks take their medicine without makin’ faces?”
She knew he referred to Masten, Chavis and Pickett, and she knew that this would be all the reference Randerson would ever make to them. But no answer formed in her mind and she kept silent.
When they came to the rock upon which he had found her, he halted and regarded it gravely.
“You had me scared that night,” he said. “Patches had most run his head off. I was mighty relieved to see you.”
“I treated you miserably that night,” she confessed.
“Did you hear me complainin’?” he asked with a gentle smile at her. “I expect, some day, when we’re together more, an’ you get to lovin’ me less than you do now, you’ll get peevish ag’in. Married folks always do. But I won’t notice it. I’ll get on Patches—if he’s alive, you wantin’ to put off the marriage so long—”
“Until the first!” she laughed, in gentle derision.
“Well,” he said, with pretended gravity, “when a man has waited, as long as I’ve waited, he gets sort of impatient.” He grinned again, and gave her this last shot: “An’ mighty patient after!”
And they rode on again, through the white sunlight, close together, dreaming of days to come.