Joe Dean lounged forward.
“Stranger, have you broke your fast?”
“No.”
Another silence, during which the blacksmith poured a cup of inky coffee from the great pot, hacked off a piece of bread from a dusky loaf, and shoved them toward their unwelcome guest across the table by which he had sat down.
“Eat, and be quick about it.”
The color rose in the Easterner’s cheek, but he made no motion to obey, and after a brief waiting, seeing this, Joe threw the coffee out of the window and tossed the bread to the dogs.
“There’s a horse outside. It’s for you. The poorest we’ve got, because once you’ve bestrode him no decent man’ll ever mount him again. He’ll answer, though, to carry you beyond this valley, and Samson’ll go with you to see you leave it for good. Then he’ll turn the beast loose and may the Lord have mercy on your dirty soul. Get!”
Mr. Hale did not stir. His own eye gathered fire and the pink in his face grew scarlet, but his voice was calm as he inquired:
“Am I still at Sobrante, the home of gentlefolks? By whose orders, please, this present dramatic scene?”
“Yes; this is Sobrante. The home of gentlefolks–you spoke the truth for once. The home of Cassius Trent, the truest man, the noblest heart, the whitest gentleman the good Lord ever made. The home of a man! and not a free hotel for whelps! Ugh! If I had promised the captain–Lady Jess, let me off that word! I must at him, I must–I will!”