"Oh, no; ma'am. Never thought nothin' o' th' kind. You stick yore brand on him an' we 'll say no more about it. Yore health, ma'am."
Rose packed the dough into the pan and set it aside. Buck watched her with rueful countenance. "Now you 've gone an' made her mad," he told himself. "Guess you better stick to cows, you longhorn!"
She returned to her place and sat opposite him, her flour-stained arms lying along the table. "You shall take him, M'sieu Peters," she declared.
To Buck's remonstrance she nodded her head. "Mais oui—it is better," she insisted. "He grow up a man, a strong man—yes. Only a strong man have a chance in this so bad country. Yes, it is better, I call him."
"Let me," Buck interposed, and stepping to the door he cried out a yodelling call that brought Fritz scampering into the cabin with scared face: it was his father's well-known summons. Rose called him to her and put her arms about his shoulders.
"M'sieu Peters have come to take you with him, Fritz. You will go?" she asked him.
"Betcher life," said Pickles.
Buck grinned and Rose laughed a little at the callous desertion. "Eh, bien, m'sieu—you hear?" she said to Buck, and then, to the boy: "It please you more to go with M'sieu Peters than stay with me—yes?"
"Betcher life," repeated Pickles. "Yo 're all right, but I want to be a cow-punch an' rope an' shoot. Some day I 'll get that d—d ol' Dave Owens for killin' dad."
"Dieu!" Rose was on her feet, gripping Fritz so hard that he squirmed. "Dave kill—Dave—"