Very quietly, Dallas told him that there was no food.
He grunted, arose and lighted the lantern. "You dish thet snow on th' floor," he commanded. "We'll need it fer drink."
"What're you going to do?" she asked, hastening to obey. Her voice was lowered apprehensively.
He was wrapping some clothes over his shoes. "Butcher Simon," he said curtly.
Her face became a white spot in the gloom.
"Critter'll be tough, like's not," went on her father. "But y' c'n poun' th' meat."
After a long wait, she spoke. "You can't reach him," she declared, half triumphantly.
"Yas, Ah c'n," he answered. "Ah c'n chop through with th' hatchet." He was between the fireplace and a corner, feeling over the logs with his hands.
She ran to him. "Oh, how can you think of it?" she demanded huskily. "Simon's so friendly and—came to us for a home. How can you kill him! Maybe you could eat him, but I couldn't. It'd just choke me!"
"Oh, ain't we sof'!" sneered her father. He was fumbling about near the bunk, as if hunting something. "Mebbe y' 'd like Ah should kill a mule! Ha! ha! No mule-meat fer me. Ah'll give thet bull a tunk 'tween th' eyes, an' we'll hev steak."