"Yep, tomorry," assured Lon.
"Honest Injun?" demanded Lem.
"Honest Injun," replied Lon. "If ye takes her tonight, she'll only cut up like the devil. That's the worst of them damn women, they be too techy when they come of stock like her."
"I like 'em when they're techy—it ain't so easy to make 'em do what a man wants 'em to as 'tis t'other kind—say like Scraggy. I love a gal what'll spit in yer face. God! what a lickin' Flea'll git, if she tries any of them fine notions of her'n on me! For every kiss Shellington gived her, I'll draw blood outen her hide!" Lem paused in his work, and then added in a stammering undertone, "But I love the huzzy!"
The other bent far forward to catch the scowman's words, delighting in the mental picture of Fledra's lithe body writhing under the lash. The proud spirit of the girl would break under the physical pain!
Fledra was still lying on the bed when Lon returned to the hut.
"Git up and git supper!" Cronk growled in her ear.
Mechanically she rose, sliced a few cold potatoes into the skillet, and arranged the table for one person.
"Put down two plates!" roared the squatter.