He was working for thinking time: “He's crazy—he's sho' crazy—” he said to himself. Coming back, he said:
“Pardon me, Mr. Travis—but the oldes' gyrl—what—what about her, you know?”
“She's mine, isn't she? I've won her—outgeneraled the others—by brains and courage. She should belong to my harem—to my band—as the stallion of the plains when he beats off with tooth and hoof and neck of thunder his rival, and takes his mares.”
Jud nodded, looking at him quizzically.
“Well, what about it?” asked Travis.
“Nothin'—only this”—then he lowered his voice as he came nearer—“the ole 'oman will be after her in an hour—an' she'll take her—tell her all. Maybe you'll see somethin' to remind you of Jesus Christ in that.”
Travis smiled.
“Well,” went on Jud, “you'd better take her now—while the whole thing has played into yo' hands; but she—the oldes' gyrl—she don't know the ole 'oman's come back an' made her a home; that her father is sober an' there with her little sister, that Clay is away an' ain't deserted her. She don't know anything, an' when you set her out in that empty house, deserted, her folks all deserted her, as she'll think, don't you know she'll go to the end of the worl' with you?”
“Well?” asked Travis as he smiled calmly.
“Well, take her and thank Jud Carpenter for the Queen of the Valley—eh?” and he laughed and tried to nudge Travis familiarly, but the latter moved away.