Glory didn’t have much to say after it was over. She kissed the kid, and then got on her horse.
“I ain’t had much chance to talk to you two,” says she, “but I want you both to know I’m obliged to you. Maybe they won’t let me see you again, but I hope you’ll take Buddy and get away—which I know you won’t do.”
“Glory Sillman,” says Hashknife, “you’re welcome—and we won’t.”
She smiled at us and rode away, and we stood there with our hats in our hands, like a pair of fools until she’s out of sight.
“Well,” says I, “we’ve met Willer Crick.”
“Not all, Sleepy; there’s forty more, so they say. Glory left her rifle. It’s standin’ in there, and hangin’ to it is a belt plumb full of shells. She likely didn’t know we had a pair of rifles.”
“She did,” says I, “but she wanted to have an extra one here when she showed up.”
We cooks supper, but neither of us has any appetite. Buddy wants to get on Hashknife’s knee all the time, and Hashknife ain’t got no conversation in his system, except, “My gosh!” They’ve got the house fixed up kinda nice inside. There ain’t much furniture, but it’s clean, which is something in Willer Crick.
“Don’t yuh never have no little boys to play with?” I asks.
“Li’l boys?” says Buddy, “I’m li’l boy.”