Molly went off to the house. But Lightning made no move to accompany her. A day wasted scouring the hills left him with a heavy leeway of chores to make up. It was upwards of an hour, and darkness had closed down, before he appeared at the house for the meal the girl had prepared. Molly made no attempt to question him further till the man’s needs had been amply supplied. She knew too well the value of a comforted stomach in men-folk.
After she, too, had eaten, Molly sat with her elbows planted on the table, and her cheeks supported in the palms of her sun-browned hands. She was thoughtfully watching Lightning devour the last of his third portion of baked hash. They were in the neat kitchen. It was plain and scrupulously simple in its furnishings, much of which had been home-made. But they were ample for the needs of their no less simple lives.
Lightning washed down his supper with a noisy draught of tea from an enamelled beaker. And as he did so Molly withdrew from the table to replenish it.
“Light your old pipe,” she said, as she passed the teapot back to the stove. “Then you can tell me about—horse thieves.”
“It’s—Dan Quinlan.”
Lightning’s statement was an explosion.
“Dan Quinlan?”
Molly came again to her chair, and sat down in a hurry. She was genuinely startled.
“Why, Dan Quinlan’s been up in the hills years,” she went on, recovering herself. “I remember him when I was a kiddie.” She shook her head. “I’d say you’ve made a bad guess.”
“Hev I?”