"Yours, I reckon?"
"Yes, that's Loisy an' the boy," fighting the conscious pride in his voice like one who tries to wear his honors meekly.
He took the well-worn case again, gazing into the two faces an instant with helpless yearning, and returned it to its place. The very way he handled it was a caress, fastening the little brass hook with scrupulous care.
"I'll be sendin' fur 'em when I git red o' this pesterin' cough."
II.
A very quiet, unobtrusive guest Mrs. Brandt found the man Brice; talking little save in a sudden gush of confidence, and always of his wife and child; choosing a quiet corner of the kitchen in the chill California nights, where he watched his hostess's deft movements with wistful admiration.
"Try huntin', Brice; the doctors mostly say it's healthy."
And Brice tried hunting, as Joel advised, taking the gun from its crotch over the door after breakfast, and wandering for hours in the yellow, wine-like air of the mesa. He came in at noon and nightfall always empty-handed, yet no one derided his failure. There was something about the man that smothered derision.
"A sort o' thunderin' patience that knocks a fellow," Bert Fox put it.
Mrs. Brandt had always an encouraging word for the hunter.