"Breakfast will be ready soon's I get home. You just come along," he said.
We followed him to the log-house which had risen beside Boone's dilapidated dwelling. A neatly-dressed, dark-haired woman was busy about the stove, and our host presented us very simply. "Here's the man who shot the money-lender, and a partner, Lou."
The woman, who laid down the pan she held, cast a quick glance of interest at my companion. "We have seen you, and wondered why you never looked in," she said.
"Did you twice do a great kindness for me?" asked Boone.
The woman's black eyes softened. "Sure, that was a little thing, and don't count for much. The posies were so pretty, and I figured they'd keep fresh a little longer," she said.
"It was one of the little things which count the most," said Boone.
Thereupon the woman's olive-tinted face flushed into warmer color, while her long-limbed spouse observed: "She's of the French habitant stock, and their ways of showing they haven't forgotten aren't the same as ours."
Breakfast was set before us, and I think Boone had made firm friends of our hosts before we finished the meal. He had abilities in this direction. They, on their part, were very simple people, the man silent for the most part, rugged in face, and abrupt when he spoke, but shrewd in his own way it seemed withal, and probably as generous as he was hard at a bargain. His wife was of the more emotional Latin stock, quick in her movements, and one might surmise equally quick in sympathy.
"You are not the man who bought the place at the sale," said Boone, at length. "I can remember him tolerably well, and, if I couldn't, one would hardly figure you were likely to work under Lane."
"No!" and the farmer laughed his curious laugh again. "No. I shouldn't say. We never worked for any master since my grandfather got fired for wanting his own way by the Hudson's Bay, and I guess neither Lane nor the devil could handle the rest of us. He once came round to try."