“No.”
Again came Nick’s monosyllabic reply.
“Guess we’d best let him know.”
There was a pause. Ralph waited for his brother to speak. As no answer came he went on.
“Who’s goin’ to tell him?”
Still there was no reply. The silence was broken only by the “ping” of the rawhide strands which Nick tested as he drew tight.
“We need some fixin’s fer her,” Ralph went on, a moment later. “Wimmin, I ’lows, has fancies. Now, maybe, Victor’s got a mighty fine show o’ print stuffs. A bit o’ Turkey red wouldn’t come amiss, I dessay. Likewise beads.”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you take the dogs an’ run in?”
Nick’s hands suddenly became motionless; his eyes were raised until they looked into the face of his brother. His seared, weather-beaten skin flushed a desperate hue, and his eyes were alight and shining angrily. His lips twitched with the force of the passion stirring within him, and for some seconds he held himself not daring to trust to speech.