His own gaunt frame and hollow cheeks, however, told plainly of the hardships all had endured, and lack of food had not been the least of these. Ephriam's face softened.
“Yes,” he said, in apology for his momentary suspicion, “I can see you have suffered.”
“But you have got a fine climate, elder,” broke in the Missourian, bent on being conciliatory. “Jim and me noticed that right along. This is the place to come for climate; there's nothing else heah to take your mind off it; it's heah thick.”
But Ephriam's glance had gone back to the child.
“Poor little fellow! Some emigrant's boy, probably.”
Benny looked up quickly into his face and stole to his side. Whatever those first suspicions of his concerning Jim and the Missourian they had in no wise abated; all their kindness had not altered his doubt of them. The questions they had asked him, but more than all their strange and to him utterly incomprehensible knowledge of so much that had taken place on that hill, had bred conviction in his brain. He hated and feared them.
“Seems to fancy you, elder,” said the Missourian. “We certainly done what we could for him, which ain't saying much, for we'd liked to do a heap more.”
A young girl appeared in the doorway; the Missourian turned quickly, hearing her light step, and swept off his battered hat with an elaborate flourish.
“Ma'am,” he said.
Jim, by a casual gesture, brushed the flapping brim that shaded his eyes; he was speechless.