"It was fortunate they had no children," Messner continued.
But Haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and
mittens.
"I'm going out to get some wood," he said. "Then I can take off my
moccasins and he comfortable."
The door slammed behind him. For a long minute there was silence.
The man continued in the same position on the bed. The woman sat
on the grub-box, facing him.
"What are you going to do?" she asked abruptly.
Messner looked at her with lazy indecision. "What do you think I
ought to do? Nothing scenic, I hope. You see I am stiff and
trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful."
She gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly.
"But - " she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped.
"I hope you don't want me to kill Mr. -er - Haythorne," he said
gently, almost pleadingly. "It would be most distressing, and, I
assure you, really it is unnecessary."
"But you must do something," she cried.
"On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do
anything."
"You would stay here?"
He nodded.
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