“You’ll prob’ly be here a hell of a long time. Let’s turn in. Take Blair’s bunk, if yuh want to. He died in a good cause.”
“Thanks. I am not afraid of dead men. They are harmless.”
It was the following day at the Tumbling H Ranch that the wounded man came slowly out through the kitchen door and sat down in a blanket-covered rocking chair which had been placed in the shade for him by Lucy.
He was still a trifle shaky, colorless, but able to get around. His thin face twisted wearily as he sat down and brushed back his black hair with a nervous gesture. It was washday at the Tumbling H, and the invalid watched Wanna as she hung out the clothes, her arms bare to the shoulder, her black hair hanging down her back in a big braid.
From around the corner came the everlasting rub-rub-rub as Lucy scrubbed the clothes. Down at the corral, Hashknife, Sleepy, and Musical were saddle-breaking a colt, and having a big time out of it. The pseudo Jack Hill scowled at them as he rolled a cigarette.
Wanna came back to the corner, carrying the empty basket. Jack smiled up at her and indicated for her to sit down on the steps. But Wanna shook her head with a smile.
“Work to be done,” she said.
“I don’t know how you stand it to live here all the time,” he said. “My God, I’d get the willies sure. And you say you’ve never been out of here, out of Hawk Hole?”
Wanna turned and scanned the hills, as she shook her head.