"You can believe," Nan replied grimly, "that I am not in a mood to be critical."
The dismal bay of hounds, the shrill yip of many mongrel kiyis, told them they were nearing the Blakely home, which was hidden in the tall torneo of the Longhorn bosque, less than a mile from the Rio Grande.
They came abruptly into a clearing where a log-house and yard were enclosed in a stockade of upright poles.
With the barking of the dogs, children of every age and size and stage of dress and undress came tumbling through the doors and from the windows, as Nan could see in spaces between the poles.
"Where's ma?" asked Edith as she unfastened the stockade gate and swung it open. "Isn't she home, Clytie?"
Clytie rested one bare foot on the instep of the other, and giggled.
"Nope. She went a couple of miles down the road to borry a little salt from them campers."
A look of weariness succeeded annoyance in Edith's face.
