For a fraction of a second she looked at it, apparently surprised. It was as though she said, a little disdainfully, “What’s the use of all this fuss about nothing?” Then her hand met his.
He said, in a low voice, “Old dog Tray’s mighty grateful, Vicky.”
But he spoke with a smile, words unstressed. She drew a breath of relief. Hugh understood, anyhow. He was not imagining any foolishness.
“Oh, I didn’t want them to take that villain from you,” she explained. “I’ll not be satisfied till he’s hanged. What have you heard about Scot?”
“A telegram last night and one this mo’ning. He’s still holdin’ his own, the doctors say. But they’re not hopeful. One of the bullets went into his intestines.”
Tears brimmed her eyes. “Isn’t it dreadful—when people are happy, like Scot and Mollie, that——”
He nodded, his throat tightening.
“Don’t let these buckwheats get cold,” Mrs. Budd said cheerfully, bustling in with a hot plateful.
Jim Budd was sitting in the kitchen guarding the prisoner, but Byers, Hugh, and Vicky, with an occasional word from Mrs. Budd, discussed plans for getting Dutch to Carson.
Both Hugh and Byers were exhausted. The night through which they had just come had been a terrible one. Their bodies from which the skin peeled in flakes at several points of contact with their clothes, were a torment to them. Eyebrows, eyelashes, and some of the front hair had crisped away. The faces of both of them were fire-red, and from sunken sockets blear-eyed old age gazed listlessly. They needed sleep certainly, medical attention possibly.