Leander having disposed of his last dish-towel, squinted at it through his half-closed eyes, like an artist “sighting” a landscape, saw apparently that it was in drawing, and next brought his vision to bear on the back premises of his own dwelling, where he saw there was no wifely figure in evidence.
“Sh-sh-h!” he said, creeping towards Mary, his dull face transfigured with the consciousness that he had news to tell. “Sh-sh—her brother’s a rustler. If ’twan’t for her”—Leander went through the grewsome pantomime of tying an imaginary rope round his neck and throwing it over the limb of an imaginary tree. “They’re goin’ to get him for shore this time, soon as he comes out of jail; but would you guess it from her bluff?”
There was no mistaking the fate of a rustler after Mr. Dax’s grisly demonstration, but of the quality of his calling Mary was as ignorant as before.
“And why should they do that?” she inquired, with tenderfoot simplicity.
“Stealin’ cattle ain’t good for the health hereabouts,” said Leander, as one who spoke with authority. “It’s apt to bring on throat trouble.”
But Mary did not find Leander’s joke amusing. She had suddenly remembered the pale, gaunt man who had walked into the eating-house the previous morning and walked out again, his errand turned into farce-comedy by the cowardice of an unworthy antagonist. The pale man’s grievance had had to do with sheep and cattle. His name had been Rodney, too. She understood now. He was Judith Rodney’s brother, and he was in danger of being hanged. Mary Carmichael felt first the admiration of a girl, then the pity of a woman, for the brave young creature who so stoutly carried so unspeakable a burden. But she could not speak of her new knowledge to Leander.
She glanced towards this childlike person and saw from his stealthy manner that he had more to impart. He walked towards the kitchen door, saw no one, and came back to Mary.
“There ain’t a man in this Gawd-forsaken country wouldn’t lope at the chance to die for her—but the women!” Leander’s pantomimic indication of absolute feminine antagonism was conclusive.
“The wimmin treats her scabby—just scabby. Don’t you go to thinkin’ she ain’t a good girl on that account”; and something like an attitude of chivalrous protection straightened the apologetic crook in his craven outline.