The man made a despairing gesture.
“How the hell can I, with her?” he said, indicating the younger woman.
Fletcher turned round and surveyed her with a cold, exploring eye where she had sunk down on the roots of the pine, with her back against its trunk.
“She looks pretty well tuckered out,” he said. “Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“And the other one’s your sister?” he continued with glib curiosity.
“She’s my wife, too.”
The inquirer, who was used to such plurality on the part of the Utah emigrants, gave a whistle and said:
“Mormons, eh?”
The man nodded.