Joe looked at it too. "Pretty nice one, ain't it," he observed. "Want I should get you one?"
"I should say not!" she exclaimed angrily. "And what's more, you may put that one down. I've told you not to shoot on my land, and I don't intend to have you carry off the birds under my nose, even though they are dead. Give that to me, please."
She reached out her hand, but Joe stepped alertly back. "This ain't yours," he said. He was no longer smiling; instead he eyed her sullenly, a cruel expression on his handsome face. Harry remembered that he had looked at her just so the day he had tried to pull her sweater from Isita. "Everybody's got a right to the wild critters," he added. "Besides," glancing covertly at Harry, "I was gettin' this because Isita likes 'em."
For a second Harry faltered. The picture of the younger girl, thin, tired-looking, unmistakably underfed came before her. But even as she started to yield, her indignation flamed again. "Oh, well, if it's for Isita," she answered with affected surprise, "give it to me. I'll take it home and cook it, and you tell your sister I've invited her down to dinner."
"Not much," Joe answered shortly. "We don't beg a meal off'n any one."
"An invitation isn't begging; but never mind. If you're as anxious as you say to please your sister, go put your time into plowing and planting; then you won't have to depend on a tough grouse hen for dinner."
Her eyes went again to the limp, feathered form, the bloodstained breast.
"Such stupid cruelty!" she exclaimed. "To shoot the hens at this season when it means a nestful of young ones left to starve."
"Aw!" Joe growled contemptuously and began to walk away. "What's that to you? You ain't running this country, so far's I know, and you ain't a goin' to stop me gettin' a sage hen. I'll shoot when I like."