“Get out of the wagon, Nancy,” said Clallam. “Mart, help her down.”
“I'm going back,” said the man, blinking like a scolded dog. “I ain't stayin' here for nobody. You can tell him I said so, too.” Again his eye slunk sidewise towards the cabin, and instantly back.
“While you're staying,” said Mart, “you might as well give a hand here.”
He came with alacrity, and made a shift of unhitching the horses. “I was better off coupling freight cars on the Housatonic,” he soon remarked. His voice came shallow, from no deeper than his throat, and a peevish apprehension rattled through it. “That was a good job. And I've had better, too; forty, fifty, sixty dollars better.”
“Shall we unpack the wagon?” Clallam inquired.
“I don't know. You ever been to New Milford? I sold shoes there. Thirty-five dollars and board.”
The emigrants attended to their affairs, watering the horses and driving picket stakes. Leander uselessly followed behind them with conversation, blinking and with lower lip sagged, showing a couple of teeth. “My brother's in business in Pittsfield, Massachusetts,” said he, “and I can get a salary in Bridgeport any day I say so. That a Marlin?”
“No,” said Mart. “It's a Winchester.”
“I had a Marlin. He's took it from me. I'll bet you never got shot at.”
“Anybody want to shoot you?” Mart inquired.