Frosty's heritage, in great measure, came from his renegade father. Incapable of fearing anything, he was sufficient unto himself and he'd known that from the first day he'd opened his eyes and looked around the shed. There was not and never would be a situation with which he could not cope or a foe from whom he would run in panic. His self-confidence was almost as vast as his curiosity. He would stand alone, or with kindred spirits. Never would he place himself at the mercy of, or pay homage to, one who was not kindred.
He liked the woman. She was unfailingly kind and gentle. She knew exactly how to pet him and she—a small point—brought his food. But he would not, as the gray kittens did, unbend so far as to meet her at the door. She was not his superior.
The woman spoke again and there was a little question in her voice. "Mr. Harris isn't here now, Luke, but I suppose it's all right for you to take them?"
"It's all right, Miz Harris." The man's voice was curiously flat and toneless. "I tol' the Mister I'd get 'em today."
"Well—" The woman still doubted. "How much did he promise you?"
"Two dollars, Miz Harris."
"All right. I'll pay you. They're in here."
She pulled the shed door open and Frosty looked out to see his mistress standing beside a lean hillman, dressed in sun-faded blue trousers that, somehow, were kept from falling down by frayed galluses draped over a torn shirt. The man's hair needed cutting and ragged sideburns strayed down either cheek, to meet beneath his chin. His face was hatchet like, its distinguishing characteristic being a pair of pale blue eyes. He held the reins of a skittish-looking brown horse that wore a good saddle.
Frosty stayed where he was, instinctively flattening himself so that he lay a little nearer the floor. Tails erect, eyes happy, pleased purrs filling the shed, the two gray kittens arched against their mistress' feet. She knelt and took one in either hand.
"Oh, the dears! I hate to see them go!"