"He won't have to look under the bed," the old man replied, slowly walking up and down the room.
"Jasper, do you think he'll git that app'intment as deputy marshal?"
He halted and stood with his hands behind him. "I don't know, but if he do, it means shore enough trouble." He took his hands from behind him and looked at them. "Red on yo' hands don't make a good glove. The mo' I talk to Jim, the preacher, the wus I hate red. Blood may be thicker than water all right enough, but it ain't as smilin' when the sun hits it. I don't want to fight, but—"
"Oh, yes you do," she broke in. "You'd ruther fight than eat."
A smile illumined his bronze countenance. "Wall, I ain't always hungry." The smile passed and with countenance grave and with voice deep he said: "Every whar you see a home, you may know that somebody has fit fur it. Every privilege in this here life has cost blood. If a man wants to be treated as a lamb, he must prove himself a tiger. He must conquer befo' he's allowed to set down an' love. I don't want to kill that feller, but—"
Laz Spencer appeared at the door. "Come in, Laz."
He came in and took off his slouch hat, standing there as if he had something on his mind. Suddenly he exclaimed as if discharging a great diplomatic mission: "Mornin', mornin'."
Margaret bade him good morning, and then asked concerning the health of the "folks."
He sat down and twisted his hat round and round. "The folks air jest tolerable, ma'm. How's all with you?"
"Tolerable," Margaret answered.