“Brand!” called the boy, “Oh, Brand!”
At that name Nance Allison found her tongue.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said calmly, “I’m glad you’ve come.”
“Yes?” he said in a singularly deep, sweet voice.
That voice disconcerted Nance upon the instant, stole some of her fire, so to speak. She had been ready to tackle him on the issue at once, to fight, if necessary, with a flood of reasons and protests against his treatment of Sonny.
Now, suddenly, she felt a vague sense of having intruded, of meddling with another’s affairs. But she was not one to back down from any righteous stand—and Sonny’s cause was righteous in every sense, it seemed to her.
So she gazed steadily into the direct dark eyes and nodded decidedly.
“Yes—I am,” she repeated, “I—want to talk to you.”
The man dropped the rein over the black’s head and came forward a step or two.
“Quite a rare experience,” he said, smiling, as he removed his hat and ran his brown fingers through the thick black hair that stood up from his sweated forehead, “it’s been a long time since any woman has wanted to talk to us—eh, Sonny?”