"You ain't use' to travelling, Mrs. Blake," suggested Mary.
"On the contrary, my dear," that lady assured her. "Mr. Blake hauled me over the entire country from the Mississippi to the Atlantic; but he never subjected me to the churning discomfort of a devil-drawn buckboard driven by a heartless madcap in petticoats." Mrs. Blake shifted the faintest imaginable distance to the left and back again immediately: the first position was the more comfortable, as she might have known.
The two younger women exchanged a smile, Margaret's a merry one, Mary's more sober as she thought how easily the buckboard might have carried a load indifferent for all time, to jolts. "Did you see anything o' th' boys?" she asked.
"I saw them all, I believe," answered Margaret. "They went through Twin River just before we started."
"Cock Murray came back with you. Did you see my husband? He started out to find Mr. Peters."
"Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Booth went after that Dave brute."
"Where was Buck?"
"He was wounded, Mrs. Cassidy. Not badly, they say. Dave shot him from ambush. We found him lying in the road."
"Oh! I ought to go to him," and Mary started from her seat.
"Certainly not," declared Mrs. Blake. "It is quite evident that you do not appreciate the comforts of inertia. Besides, from what Margaret tells me, he is well taken care of."