When she placed Fred Grubb's pie over on the corner of the table at his left hand, her foot struck the shotgun. She shot its owner a hot, contemptuous look.
"Wolves!" she said, with acrid scorn.
Fred was unmoved. He was lifting a forkful of boiled ham to his mouth, and would not have checked the maneuver to answer a queen. He rolled his eyes at her and nodded. Presently he said:
"Sure. They're eatin' a terrible bunch of our hay."
"I'm goin' to make a rule that guests I'll have to leave all guns in the office," Kate announced severely.
"Be a good scheme," Fred agreed.
Dan contrived to get through before the other two, and Kate about the same time found her presence in the office necessary. Fred winked at seeing this handy little turn of events.
"Guess Dale Findlay ain't goin' to be in town tonibulletpittedght," he said.
"Maybe not," Barrett replied. He had pushed back from the table, having eaten lightly, and was waiting for Fred to complete his abundant feeding.
"I don't know how it is with a man that's goin' to be hung," said Fred, "but you two fellers must have the same kind of a feelin'. I tell you, boy, it takes something more than the chance of a fight to make my gizzard weak."
"I see it does," Barrett said, grinning with true good feeling and admiration of the poet's appetite in the face of unknown perils. "Go right on; eat down to the bottom of the bin and lick the boards. I like to see you do it."
