Sam, scowling and hardening at her approach, was careful to keep his distance. He suspected her of a design to detain him by force.
"There's been too much talk," he growled. "You'd better hustle on down. They'll be here soon."
"Sam, don' go!" she begged. "W'at you do at head of lake? Not get no job but cook. Stay wit' me. We got boat and gun and blankets. We need no more. I show you all w'at to do. I show you fishin' and huntin'. When winter come I show you how to trap good fur. You will be rich with me. I not bot'er you no more. I do everything you want."
In her distress Sam's angry eyes chose to see only chagrin at the prospect of his escaping her. At the same time her beseeching face filled him with a wild commotion that he would not recognize. His only recourse lay in instant flight.
"Cut it out! What good does it do?" he cried harshly. "I tell you I'm going to the head of the lake."
"All right, I tak' you there," she said eagerly. "More quick as you can walk, too. Half a mile down the river there is a little backwater to hide. We let those men go by and then come back. I do w'at you want, Sam."
"Will you give me a little grub, or won't you?" he insisted. "I'd rather starve than go with you!"
She burst into tears. "All right, I give you food," she said. She turned back to the dugout, and, throwing back the cover of the grub-box, put what bread and smoked fish she had left into a cotton bag.
Sam awaited her, raging with that intolerable bitterness that a tender and obstinate man feels at the sight of a woman's tears.
She offered him the little package of food, and a blanket as well. "Tak' my ot'er blanket," she said humbly. "I can get more."