But always quietly alert, her eyes scanned land and river, the bank opposite, the open fields behind her. Once, certain of a second’s safety, she relaxed with a sigh, stretching out full length on the grass; and, under the edge of her cotton skirt, the metal of a revolver glimmered for an instant, strapped in its holster below her right knee.
The evening of the fourth day was cooler; the kitten hoisted its tail for the first time in their acquaintance, and betrayed a feeble interest in the flight of a white dusk-moth that came hovering around the porch vines.
“Pussy,” said the Messenger, “there’s bacon in that well pit; I am going to make a fire and fry some.”
The kitten mewed faintly.
“I thought you’d approve, dear. Cold food is bad in hot weather; and we’ll fry a little cornmeal, too. Shall we?”
The kitten on its small, uncertain legs followed her into one of the only two rooms. The fat tenant of the hovel had left some lightwood and kindling, and pots and pans necessary for such an existence as he led on earth.
The Messenger twisted up her hair and pinned it; then culinary rites began, the kitten breaking into a thin purring when an odor of bacon filled the air.
“Poor little thing!” murmured the Messenger, going to the door for a brief cautionary survey. And, coming back, she lifted the fry pan and helped the kitten first.
They were still eating when the sun set and the sudden Southern darkness fell over woods and fields and river. A splinter of lightwood flared aromatically in an old tin candlestick; by its smoky, wavering radiance she heated some well water, cleaned the tin plates, scoured pan and kettle, and set them in their humble places again.
Then, cleansing her hands daintily, she dried them, and picked up her sewing.