Soon they met Larry, who came stooping along, burdened with a deer carcass on his shoulder. Relieving himself, he hailed them.
“How air you-all?” he drawled, addressing himself mostly to Allie.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Allie, he’s my friend and partner,” replied Neale. “Larry King. But I call him Red—for obvious reasons.”
“Wal, Miss Allie, I reckon no tall kick would be a-comin’ if you was to call me Red,” drawled Larry. “Or better—Reddy. No other lady ever had thet honor.”
Allie looked at him steadily, as if this was the first time she had seen him, but she did not reply. And Larry, easily disconcerted, gathered up his burden and turned toward camp.
“Wal, I’m shore wishin’ you-all good luck,” he called, significantly.
Neale shot a quick glance at Allie to see if the cowboy’s good-humored double meaning had occurred to her. But apparently she had not heard. She seemed to be tiring. Her lips were parted and she panted.
“Are you tired? Shall we go back?” he asked.
“No—I like it,” she returned, slowly, as if the thought were strange to her.