Like Lot’s wife, she looked back from the hillside. Jeff clung desperately to the sapling with one hand; from the other a handkerchief—hers—fluttered a good-by message. She threw him a farewell, with an ambiguous gesture.
It was late when Jeff reached Rosebud Camp. He unsaddled Nigger Baby, the little and not entirely gentle black horse, rather unobtrusively; but Johnny Dines sauntered out during the process, announcing supper.
“Huh!” sniffed Jeff. “S’pose I thought you’d wait until I come to get it?”
Nothing more alarming than tallies was broached during supper, however. Afterward, Johnny tilted his chair back and, through cigarette smoke, contemplated the ceiling with innocent eyes.
“Nigger Babe looks drawed,” he suggested.
“Uh-huh. Had one of them poor spells of his.”
Puff, puff.
“Your saddle’s skinned up a heap.”
“Run under a tree.”