And an awful mean fighter——”
The song ceased abruptly as he spied the wagon on his claim and headed his mount for the spot. He leaned from his saddle and inspected the ample lady who still smiled through the grotesque mask of black ashes that had settled on her face, then let his eyes rove over the children in the depths of the wagon.
“This your claim?” the solemn man inquired. “We just want to wash up a bit and camp here for the night.”
Molly waited for the abrupt refusal. The Texan gazed helplessly from one to another of the group.
“Mean to say you didn’t get a piece of your own with all this stretch to choose from?” he demanded.
The man shook his head.
“Have this one,” the Texan invited. “I’ve been wondering what the hell I’d do with it.”
The woman still smiled but a tear squeezed through and trickled down, leaving a trail in the grime of ashes on her face. She leaned over the infant in her arms to hide the evidence of weakness, speaking a word to the child. The Texan shifted uneasily in the saddle and Molly saw him in a new guise; not as a big ruffian but as an overgrown, kindly boy, helpless to extricate himself from this trying situation. A happy thought struck him.
“I’d cry too if I thought I had to live here,” he said. “I’d trade this whole damn country for a square rod in Texas,” and he headed his horse back down the creek.
Hours later Molly Lassiter reclined on Carver’s camp bed which he had spread for her on the floor of the Half Diamond H ranch house.