“We’re not used to being waited on,” he continued. “Now you sit down here,”—he rose from his end of the bench and pointed to it,—“and next thing we want I’ll go in and get it. You’ve had your own breakfast, of course?”
“No—I ain’t had mine yet,” she answered meekly.
“Well, why ain’t you?” he almost shouted. “What d’ye mean by giving us ours first?”
She looked terrified and shrank a little on the bench. Moreau had a dreadful idea that for a moment she was afraid of being struck.
“Here, take this cup,” he said, giving her his,—“and this bacon,” picking from the pan, which stood in the middle of the table, the choicest pieces, and a biscuit. “There—now eat. I’m done.”
She tried to eat, but it was evidently difficult. Her hands, bent and disfigured with work, shook. At intervals she cast a furtive, questioning look at him where he sat on an overturned box, eying her with good-humored interest. As he met the frightened dog-eyes he smiled encouragingly, but she was grave and returned to her breakfast with nervous haste.
As the men descended the bank to the stream bed, Fletcher said:
“Well, she’s some use in the world. That’s the first decent meal we’ve had since we left Sacramento.”
“She didn’t eat much of it herself,” returned his pard as he began the morning’s work.
“She is the gol-darnedest lookin’ woman I ever seen. Looks as if she’d been fed on shavings. I’ll lay ten to one that emigrant cuss she b’longs to has ’most beat the life out er her.”