"Long ways from home, ain't you?"
Although he looked directly at Danny, although he put the question to him and to him alone, the boy pretended to misunderstand—chose to do so because in the counter question he could express a little of the quick contempt, the instinctive loathing that sprang up for this man who needed not to speak to show his crude, unreasoning, militant dislike for the stranger, and whose words only gave vent to the spirit of the bully.
"Are you speaking to me?" Danny asked, and the cool simplicity of his expression carried its weight to those who stood waiting to hear his answer.
The other grinned, his mouth twisting at an angle.
"Who else round here'd be far from home?" he asked.
Danny turned to Jed.
"How far is it?" he asked.
"A hundred an' ten," Jed answered, a swift pleasure lighting his serious face.
Danny turned back to his questioner.
"I'm a hundred and ten miles from home," he said with the same simplicity, and lifted the saddle from his horse's back.