Rivers sat down beside Blanche. "It would be death to attempt Wheatland to-night," he said. "I could make it all right, but it would be the end of you."
Bailey could not hear the words she spoke in reply. "Supper's ready," said he. "We all have to eat, no matter what comes."
Something in his voice and manner affected Blanche deeply. She buried her face in her hands and wept while Rivers sat helplessly looking at her. She could not rise and walk before him yet. The shame of her sin weighed her down.
Bailey poured some tea and gave it to Rivers.
"Take this to her while I toast her some bread."
She drank the tea but refused food, and Rivers sat down again still wearing an air of defiance, though Bailey did not appear to notice it. He ate a hearty supper, making a commonplace remark now and again.
Once he said, "We're in for a hard winter."
"It's hell on the squatters," Rivers replied, for want of other words. "I don't know what they'll do. No money and no work for most of them. They'll have to burn hay. If it hadn't been for the price on buffalo bones, I guess some of them would starve."
Rising from the table, Bailey moved about doing up the work. He was very thoughtful, and the constraint increased in tension.
The storm steadily increased. Its lashings of sleet grew each hour more furious. The cabin did not reel, for it sat close in a socket of sods—it endured in the rush of snow like a rock set in the swash of savage seas. The icy dust came in around the stovepipe and fell in a fine shower down upon Bailey's hands, fell with a faintly stinging touch, and the circle of warmth about the fire grew less wide each hour. "If the horses don't all freeze we'll be in luck," said he.