“Can't stop. I expect she'll last to Drybone. Good-evening.”
“Stay to supper,” said McLean, always seated on his chair.
“Can't stop, thank you. I expect we can last to Drybone.” He twitched the reins.
McLean levelled a pistol at a chicken, and knocked off its head. “Better stay to supper,” he suggested, very distinctly.
“It's business, I tell you. I've got to catch Governor Barker before he—”
The pistol cracked, and a second chicken shuffled in the dust. “Better stay to supper,” drawled McLean.
The man looked up at his wife.
“So yus need me!” she broke out. “Ain't got heart enough in yer played-out body to stand up to a man. We'll eat here. Get down.”
The husband stepped to the ground. “I didn't suppose you'd want—”
“Ho! want? What's Lin, or you, or anything to me? Help me out.”