"Is that so? Is that so?"
"Yes, that's so. This is my private party, and you wanna keep paws off."
"Aw, go sit on yourself!"
"Remember what I told you," the marshal said in part and took his departure.
Arrived home, Hazel unhitched and unharnessed, turned the team into the corral and carried her purchases into the kitchen and dumped them on the table. She hung up her man's hat on one of the hooks that held the Winchester, and fluffed the hair about her temples by the aid of the mirror that hung below the Terry clock her uncle had brought West with him. She had always liked the Terry clock,—from the cheerful painted pumpkins and grapes that graced the patterned top to the peculiar throbbing ring it gave on striking the hour, she liked it.
And on a day the old clock was destined to repay that liking full measure, pressed down and running over.
While she was fixing her hair, the clock struck three.
Silently she unwrapped her bundles and stored away the contents in crock and box and drawer. A tidy person, Hazel. Then, because she was still in a temper with Nate Samson, she changed her dress, donned a pair of overalls and began to scrub the kitchen floor.
"Liar!" she said aloud, scraping a vigorous brush under the dresser. "Liar! I hope your old store burns up!"
So occupied was she with her thoughts and her work that she failed to hear the approach of a rider.