coming in
too," Miss Travers said. Sophie waited, and side by side they
walked toward the house.
As they drew near the
porch, Sophie noticed a small cloth bundle lying at the foot of the
steps. Before she had time to give it more than a passing glance,
Miss Travers scooped it up and put it under her arm. Just then the
front door opened and both women looked up.
"Oh, you're here,
James," Miss Travers said. "How does that happen? Am I
early?"
"I was concerned about
Mrs. Dymond. She didn't tell anyone where she was going with you."
"And you thought I
might let harm come to her? You know me better than that, James."
The disdain in her voice was unmistakable, and the muscles of James'
cheek and neck strained with suppressed anger.
As they all moved into the
drawing room, Sophie saw Miss Travers shift the cloth bundle just
enough so James could see it.
"Where...?" he
started to ask.
"At the bottom of the
porch stairs," Miss Travers answered. She shifted the bundle
again, and something bright blue fell to the floor. Sophie bent to
pick it up, and only in the last second before she handed it to Miss
Travers did she realize what it was: a tiny glass eye. As the
schoolteacher took it from her, Sophie saw that the bundle under Miss
Travers' arm was a doll. Its head was cracked open.
"It was Esther's,
wasn't it?" said Sophie. "She threw it from the attic
window."
"Either that, or down
the steps," Miss Travers said, exchanging a glance with James,
which Sophie couldn't interpret. "I'll go up and talk to her. To
both of them."
As she left the room and
started up the hall stairway, James turned to Sophie. "Where did
you go with her!" he demanded.
"To the Wilson
homestead," she answered in a tone no less indignant than his.
What right had he to demand an accounting of her?
"Ah, I might have
guessed." He jammed his hands in his pockets, and his
dark-ringed eyes flashed with anger. "And I suppose she told you
all about how we're a bother to those poor folks out there."
"The subject came up.
Somebody shot out all the Wilsons' windows."
James raised his eyebrows,
seemed doubtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, that kind of
thing is going to happen. Look, I don't know what she told you, but
the Wilsons shouldn't be out there."
"Why not? The law says
they're entitled to their homesteads."
"You can't run cattle
on a homestead. It takes thousands of acres in this country."
"But there's all the
land that doesn't belong to anyone. Can't Wilson's cattle graze there
just as yours do?"
"It's not that simple.
There are too damned many cattle on the range now." He began to
pace back and forth. "But, hell, that's not the real reason for
getting Wilson out of there. The plain fact is, he's a thief."
"Miss Travers said the
big owners got a law passed which lets them steal unmarked cattle
from the homesteaders."
"She's talking about
the maverick law," he said with some impatience. "It just
gives the Stock Growers' Association--the big owners, if you
will--control of roundups and lets them sell the unmarked cattle
that're brought in."
"But couldn't the
unmarked cattle belong to Wilson, for instance?"
"Not likely. Since the
stock growers own most of the cattle in the territory, odds are the
mavericks come from their animals."
"But there's a chance
they could be Wilson's."
"A chance, yes."
He was growing angry at her insistent questions. "But there's a
much better chance that the animals in Wilson's herd belong to other
people. He's put his brand on every unmarked cow he can find, and
he's changed more than a few brands, too. He's a thief, plain and
simple, but the juries won't find against him, so people are going to
take the matter up themselves. Wilson's lucky if it doesn't come to
anything worse than a few windows shot out."
She took a moment to think
about what he'd said. "Let me see if I understand you. It's all
right for the stock growers to round up Wilson's unmarked cattle, but
not for him to take yours. And it's all right for
too," Miss Travers said. Sophie waited, and side by side they
walked toward the house.
As they drew near the
porch, Sophie noticed a small cloth bundle lying at the foot of the
steps. Before she had time to give it more than a passing glance,
Miss Travers scooped it up and put it under her arm. Just then the
front door opened and both women looked up.
"Oh, you're here,
James," Miss Travers said. "How does that happen? Am I
early?"
"I was concerned about
Mrs. Dymond. She didn't tell anyone where she was going with you."
"And you thought I
might let harm come to her? You know me better than that, James."
The disdain in her voice was unmistakable, and the muscles of James'
cheek and neck strained with suppressed anger.
As they all moved into the
drawing room, Sophie saw Miss Travers shift the cloth bundle just
enough so James could see it.
"Where...?" he
started to ask.
"At the bottom of the
porch stairs," Miss Travers answered. She shifted the bundle
again, and something bright blue fell to the floor. Sophie bent to
pick it up, and only in the last second before she handed it to Miss
Travers did she realize what it was: a tiny glass eye. As the
schoolteacher took it from her, Sophie saw that the bundle under Miss
Travers' arm was a doll. Its head was cracked open.
"It was Esther's,
wasn't it?" said Sophie. "She threw it from the attic
window."
"Either that, or down
the steps," Miss Travers said, exchanging a glance with James,
which Sophie couldn't interpret. "I'll go up and talk to her. To
both of them."
As she left the room and
started up the hall stairway, James turned to Sophie. "Where did
you go with her!" he demanded.
"To the Wilson
homestead," she answered in a tone no less indignant than his.
What right had he to demand an accounting of her?
"Ah, I might have
guessed." He jammed his hands in his pockets, and his
dark-ringed eyes flashed with anger. "And I suppose she told you
all about how we're a bother to those poor folks out there."
"The subject came up.
Somebody shot out all the Wilsons' windows."
James raised his eyebrows,
seemed doubtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, that kind of
thing is going to happen. Look, I don't know what she told you, but
the Wilsons shouldn't be out there."
"Why not? The law says
they're entitled to their homesteads."
"You can't run cattle
on a homestead. It takes thousands of acres in this country."
"But there's all the
land that doesn't belong to anyone. Can't Wilson's cattle graze there
just as yours do?"
"It's not that simple.
There are too damned many cattle on the range now." He began to
pace back and forth. "But, hell, that's not the real reason for
getting Wilson out of there. The plain fact is, he's a thief."
"Miss Travers said the
big owners got a law passed which lets them steal unmarked cattle
from the homesteaders."
"She's talking about
the maverick law," he said with some impatience. "It just
gives the Stock Growers' Association--the big owners, if you
will--control of roundups and lets them sell the unmarked cattle
that're brought in."
"But couldn't the
unmarked cattle belong to Wilson, for instance?"
"Not likely. Since the
stock growers own most of the cattle in the territory, odds are the
mavericks come from their animals."
"But there's a chance
they could be Wilson's."
"A chance, yes."
He was growing angry at her insistent questions. "But there's a
much better chance that the animals in Wilson's herd belong to other
people. He's put his brand on every unmarked cow he can find, and
he's changed more than a few brands, too. He's a thief, plain and
simple, but the juries won't find against him, so people are going to
take the matter up themselves. Wilson's lucky if it doesn't come to
anything worse than a few windows shot out."
She took a moment to think
about what he'd said. "Let me see if I understand you. It's all
right for the stock growers to round up Wilson's unmarked cattle, but
not for him to take yours. And it's all right for
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