“Having to marry her, Captain Hawks! Having——Well, what can a body expect when her own husband talks like that, and before strangers, too. Having——!”
Doc rubbed his leathery chin a trifle ruefully. “Stretching a point, Mrs. Hawks, ma’am, calling me a stranger, ain’t you?”
“All right. Keep him with the show, you two. Who warned you about that yellow-skinned Julie! And what happened! If sheriffs is what you want, I’ll wager you could get them fast enough if you spoke his name in certain parts of this country. Wait till we get back to New Orleans. I intend to do some asking around, and so does Frank.”
“What’s Frank got to do with it?”
But at this final exhibition of male obtuseness Parthy flounced out of the conference.
On their return from the bayous the Cotton Blossom lay idle a day at the New Orleans landing. Early on the morning of their arrival Gaylord Ravenal went ashore. On his stepping off the gangplank he spoke briefly to that same gimlet-eyed gentleman who was still loitering on the wharf. To the observer, the greeting between them seemed amiable enough.
“Back again, Gay!” he of the keen gaze had exclaimed. “Seems like you can’t keep away from the scene of the——”
“Oh, go to hell,” said Ravenal.
He returned to the Cotton Blossom at three o’clock. At his appearance the idler who had accosted him (and who was still mysteriously lolling at the waterside) shut his eyes and then opened them quickly as though to dispel a vision.
“Gripes, Ravenal! Robbed a bank?”