"What'd ye jump in the lake for, Flea?" he asked.
Still somewhat dazed, Fledra failed to answer.
"Were ye meanin' to drown yer self?"
The girl shook her head, and glanced fearfully at Lem. "Were ye a worryin' her, Lem Crabbe?" demanded the squatter hoarsely.
"I were a tryin' to kiss her," growled Lem. "A man can kiss his own woman, can't he? And that dog bit me. Look at them fingers!" Through the dim candlelight Lem's sullenness answered the dark look that Lon threw on him.
"I don't give a damn for yer fingers," Lon snarled, "and she ain't yer woman yet, and she wouldn't be nuther, if ye weren't the cussedest man livin'. Now listen while I tell ye this: If ye don't let that gal be, ye'll never get her, and I'll smack yer head off ye, if I has to say that again! Do ye want me to say that ye can't never have her?"
"Nope," cowered Lem.
"Then mind yer own business and get out of this here cabin! I'll see to Flea."
Fledra had faith that Lon Cronk would do as he promised. How often had there come to her mind the times when she was but a little girl the squatter had said when he would whip her, and she had waited in shivering terror through the long day until the big thief returned home—he never forgot his anger of the morning. Fledra winced as her imagination brought back the deliberate blows that had fallen upon her bare skin, and tears rushed to her lids at the memory of Floyd's cries, when he, too, had suffered under the strength of the powerful squatter. She was glad she could now at least rest free from Lem until the hut was reached, and then, if only something should happen to soften Cronk's heart, how hard she would work for him!