He saw then that it was an old woman wearing a brown hood and bulky with much sombre-hued clothing. Her hands were in red mittens; in one she held a little basket and a long staff and in the other something lengthy wrapped in a shawl. She looked at Jim with bright eyes out of a shriveled face. She did not answer his question.
"May I have the pleasure of driving you to the village?" he asked.
"No, I thank 'e," she replied. "Ye got beautiful manners, but I ain't a-goin' that way."
She continued to stand motionless in the middle of the road, however, knee-deep in the dry snow between the hoof-tracks of Sam Ducat's team.
"Isn't there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Be ye carryin' a gun?—an' maybe some cartridges, Mister?"
"Yes. I thought I might get a shot at something."
The old woman advanced past the colt and stood beside the pung. She placed her basket on the seat of the pung, leaned her staff against it and removed the shawl from the longish parcel, thereby disclosing a single-barrel shotgun.
"I shot away all my ca'tridges yesterday," she said. "It ain't often I hit a rabbit, but I be thankful enough when I do."
Jim looked at the gun more closely and saw that it was a breechloading number twelve. He dipped into a pocket and brought up three cartridges and gave them to the old woman. She accepted them eagerly.