“Hello, partner,” called Vic. “I got company, you see. The door blew open and I asked your little girl in.”
“I told you not to come here,” said the other. Vic felt the child tremble, but there was no burst of excuses.
“She didn't want to come,” he urged. “But I kep' on askin' her.”
The emotionless eye of “Daddy Dan” held upon Joan. “I told you not to come,” he said. Joan swallowed in mute agony, and the wolf-dog slipped to the side of the master and licked his hand as though in dumb intercession. The blood ran coldly in the veins of Gregg, as if he saw a fist raised to strike the little girl.
“You go out.”
She went swiftly, at that, sidled past her father with her eyes lifted, fascinated, and so out the door where she paused an instant to flash back a wistful appeal. Nothing but silence, and then her feet pattering off into the outer room.
“Maybe you better go keep her company, Bart,” said the father, and at this sign of relenting Vic felt his tensed muscles relaxing; the wolf whined softly and glided through the door.
“You feeling better?”
“Like a hoss off green feed. I been lyin' here drinkin' up the sunshine.”
The other stood beside the open window and there he canted his head, his glance far off and intent.