“Hullo,” she called in a quiet voice.
From inside a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles was shined upon her, and the heads of two half-grown girls peered out.
“Ther’s somebody at the gate, thar, Gabe,” said the woman.
But the man had already taken in the figure in the pink calico frock and faded sunbonnet and was regarding it with a stealthy, sidewise glance from under his flop hat. Deliberately he rose, and was followed by the woman and the two girls.
“It’s Whit Bozeman’s Luce, from over t’other side the mountain,” he said, halting in the doorway. Then to the girl waiting at the gate: “Hullo.”
But the woman went out. “’Light an’ come in,” she said, advancing with some show of interest.
“No, I ain’t hardly got time,” responded the girl. “Ole Gran’pap Bozeman is be’n tuk pow’rful bad with the mizry in his side, and I rid over to see ef I could git a black chickin. I come acrost to Weems, but nobody wasn’t to home, an’ I come on down here. I ’lowed I didn’t know none o’ you-all, but I’d hearn tell yer was mighty feelin fer folks in trouble, so I’d resk it.”
“I seen yer at the meetin’ over at Big Valley,” said Gabe from his station in the door.
“A black chickin? Co’se yer kin hev the blackest one we’ve got. Chicken gizzard tea is mighty good fer the mizry in the side. My ole aunt used to keep ’em dried and ready. Ever’ time she’d kill a black chickin she’d save the gizzard an’ jes’ string it up ’gainst the time when some o’ the folks or the neighbors would be tuck down. She wuz a master han’ fer chicken gizzard tea. But git down an’ come in; settin’ in a cheer is jes’ as easy as on the back o’ that thar critter.
“Gabe, ketch that long shanked young rooster I be’n er-saving—the one with feathers on his legs. G’long, chillun an’ he’p yer pap run that chicken down! An’ don’t yer be long about it, fer the sun’ll be gittin’ low afore she gits back over t’other side the mountain.”