He stops to stare after Parks, who, with a swift impulsive movement of the right hand, has turned upon his heel, and is moving toward the wagons.
“Mrs. Krutzer,” he calls, halting beside the one most remote from the camp fire.
“What is wanted?” answers a shrill, feminine voice.
“Is the little one with you?”
“Yes.” This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice.
“Have you seen Pearson since the storm?”
“My gracious! No.”
“How is Krutzer?”
“No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?”
“Not if he can’t walk.”