“Yo’ ‘re a stranger about here?” interrogated Sanders, catching his eye.
“Hain’t been in this country fer ten year,” was the laconic reply. “My name’s Bradley—Jim Bradley; I’ve come back to see my mother.”
“My stars! We all ‘lowed you was dead an’ buried long ‘go!” and Sanders dropped his pipe in sheer astonishment. “Well, ef that don’t take the rag off ’n the bush! Mary! Oh, Mary!”
“What ails you, Alf?” asked a slatternly woman, emerging from the firelight.
“Come out here a minute. This is the old woman’s son Jim, back from the West.”
“Yo’ ‘re a-jokin’,” she ejaculated, as she came slowly in open-eyed wonder toward the visitor. “Why, who’d ‘a’ thought—”
“Whar is she?” interrupted Bradley, unceremoniously. “I’ve come a long ways to see ‘er.”
“She’s out thar at the cow-lot a-milkin’. She tuk ’er bucket an’ the feed fer Brindle jest now.”
His eyes followed hers. Beyond a row of alder-bushes and a little patch of corn he saw the dim outlines of a log stable and lean-to shed surrounded by a snake fence. Away out toward the red-skied west lay green fields and meadows under a canopy of blue smoke, and beyond their limits rose the frowning mountains, upon the sides of which long, sinuous fires were burning.
“I reckon I ort not to run upon her too sudden,” he said, awkwardly, “bein’ as she ain’t expectin’ me, an’ hain’t no idee I’m alive. Is she well?”