Breakfast despatched, Westley handed the child to his wife, and invested himself with a shaggy overcoat and coon-skin cap, made with ear-tabs and a droll peak in front which stuck out keenly.
“You want to keep out ’n the bushes,” laughed his wife, as she opened the door for him, “or somebody ’ll be shootin’ you for a b’ar. That thar peak an’ your nose, comin’ together, makes a mighty good snout an’ all the balance looks shaggy. Folks can’t hardly tell no dif’ence, fust look.”
Westley tweaked his cap further forward. “Ev’rybody aint short-ranged like you,” he responded. “Thar’s a chance o’ ’em down out’n the mountains folks say but I aint seed none. Wish I could. ’Twould be somethin’ to brag about to kill a bustin’ big b’ar. Far’well, honey, take keer o’ yo’se’f, an’ don’t keep me loafin’ out yonder ’till ’tother fellows git the fust shot off Dan’s vittles.”
Left alone, the little woman worked busily, trying to crowd into the short daylight hours as much as they would hold. Her soap making required more time than she had allowed for so that twilight had deepened to night-fall before she had everything arranged to her mind and herself and the child made ready for the expedition.
The snow clouds had disappeared, leaving a thin, keen atmosphere through which the starlight could penetrate. This, with the snow-shimmer, made a pallid, mysterious lustre, exciting to the imagination, but insufficient for guidance, except in places where the way was open and familiar. The path across the field was a foot under cover, but a big sycamore grew near the trysting place by which it could be identified. The accustomed aspect of the earth had vanished and in its place was illusion and mystery.
Sue Westley hurried forward, hugging the cocoon which contained her baby close to her breast. She crossed the field hap-hazard, straining her near-sighted eyes for a glimpse of the sycamore, which was her objective point. Ice-coated weeds uplifted themselves above the snow crust on every side, and, when her skirts brushed against them, the ice broke and fell off with a faint metallic tinkle. The crunching of the snow under foot made her nervous, giving her the feeling of being followed, and involuntarily she began to work herself into a panic of fear that Tom would not meet her.
Her relief was proportionately great when, nearing the fence, she dimly discerned something tall and bulky leaning against it. She quickened her pace and became explanatory.
“I’m awful sorry I ke’p you waitin’, Tom, but I couldn’t git through no quicker,” she said eagerly. “That thar soap done meaner ’en any truck ever biled. Look, to me, like jedgment day’d git here afore it thimbled. That threw me late milkin’ an’ feedin’, an’ thar was baby to dress an’ me too. You’re nigh frozen I reckon, but we-all can walk rapid the balance o’ the way. Here, take the baby whilst I unhook my dress. It’s caught on a scrop o’ bresh.”
Scarcely noticing, she rested the child on the top-rail, steadying it there with one hand, while she bent down and freed her skirt. The figure beside the fence made no answer, but reached forward and drew the bundle from under her hand.
Sue turned to the next panel, which was unincumbered by brush, and climbed it with the agility of a monkey. Tom had remembered, and been before her at the tryst. A warm glow of satisfaction was generated in her heart and sent her spirits up to mischief heat. She sped forward, with a laugh, and then turned and began jumping backwards, chattering like a black bird. Tom must carry the baby awhile, she declared, her arms were tired, and besides she wanted to frolic. Then she swooped sideways and tried to grab up a handful of snow, but the hard crust defied her. No matter; snow balling Tom might be fun, but there was the danger of hitting the baby. She steadied herself and called out to him to hurry up and join her. She wanted to hear about the hunt.