"He ain't amountin' to much," she ventured, "but he air a pappy—that air somethin', ain't it?"
"Yep," mused Tessibel. "A daddy air more than a mammy."
So had Tessibel and Myra been brought up to believe. The squatter women fawned at the feet of their brutal husbands, as a beaten dog cringes to its master. That Ben Letts had broken Myra's arm on the ragged rocks, and yet the girl wanted to aid him, showed Tess the superiority of the male sex, and Myra loved the squint-eyed fisherman, she evidenced it in every action.
The lips of the younger squatter were sealed about the trail which she herself had laid in the midnight tragedy. But through the tender young heart flashed the hope that the experience with the dog would cause Ben Letts to turn his face toward the wretched, shrunken creature, who had suffered so much through him. She contemplated Myra an instant.
"Do ye want me to see him?" she asked, rising.
"Yep," replied Myra, the dull eyes filled with a momentary sparkle. "He hes somethin' to say to ye, and I did say as how ye would come."
"Air he alone?" questioned Tess.
"Nope, his mammy air with him—we'll go now—eh?"
Slipping on Daddy's boots was Tessibel's assent, and they started through the underbrush in silence.
"The brat ain't goin' to die, air he?" asked Tess presently.