Something eager, beautiful, made of the woman’s eyes soft stars of night. “I’ll never forget—never,” she promised, with a strangled sob.
There was a low jangling laugh at her shoulder. “Tha’s right. Always a fool if you can find a chance to be one, Moll,” a voice sneered.
The light died from the woman’s eyes, the colour from her cheeks. She became at once a creature lifeless, without spirit.
Scot turned, voice soft and suave. “Did you find what you went to look for in the wagon, sir?” he asked, raking the unkempt unclean emigrant with scornful eyes.
A dull flush burned into the man’s face. A furtive darting look slid from the yellow-gray eyes. It carried menace, as does sometimes that of a tamed wolf toward its trainer.
“I—I didn’t notice where Moll was when I started,” he said with sullen reluctance. “An’ I reckon tha’s my business.”
“Quite so,” agreed the gambler.
He bowed again to the woman in the cheap patched homespun, met the eyes of his brother, and turned to go.
From the wagon came a weak little wail. The McClintocks stood rooted in their tracks. Again the puling cry was raised. With a murmured exclamation the woman excused herself hurriedly and climbed into the covered wagon.
“Have you got a baby there?” asked Scot, a new note in his voice.