“Not to speak of, ma’am. I’m busted.”
“Well, you trot right in alongside o’ me. Hurry up, now—ain’t got much time to waste. My land, of all the fool men—and at your age! Hurry up.”
The two figures departed toward the stirrup-high open flooring that formed a porch the length of the frame building. One was the figure of Dad Griffith. The other was the figure of a very large woman, harsh of features; she was clad in ragged but neat khaki, and beneath her chin were tied the strings of an old black bonnet. Against her wrinkled features glowed two bright-blue eyes with the brilliancy of living jewels, giving the lie to their surrounding tokens of age. She was unknown to Fred Ross.
Filling his pipe, the homesteader sought out the store, and, with inevitable delays, set to work making his purchases. This was an occupation demanding ceremony. Other men were here on the same errand, and there was gossip of crops, land, and war to be swapped. This was the forum of the countryside, the agora of the scattered ranches.
Thus it happened that by the time Ross went to his car with an armload of supplies old Dad Griffith had finished his meal and was lounging on the steps of the stirrup-high porch. He started up at sight of Ross, who paid no attention to him, and followed the rancher out to the car.
“Hey!” he exclaimed, eagerly. “Where’s that there partner of mine?”
Ross dumped his purchases into the car and turned. He desired only to be rid of this parasite, to be rid of him for good and all—and to rid Thady Shea of him.
“He’s where you left him, old-timer—and where you’re not wanted.”
“Is—is he all right?”
“Sure. I fed him whiskey until he got well. He’s there now with a demijohn. I never seen a man able to swallow more red licker than that partner of yours! But you needn’t go showing your nose around there, savvy? He’s workin’ for me and you’re not wanted.”