“Well, I should think so!” cried Margaret.
“There were three of them, Margaret,” said Wesley, “that little fellow——”
“Hyena, you mean,” interpolated Margaret.
“Hyena,” corrected Wesley gravely, “and another boy and a girl, all equally dirty and hungry. The man was dead. They thought he was in a drunken sleep, but he was stone dead. I brought the little boy with me, and sent the officers and other help to the house. He's half starved. I want to wash him, and put clean clothes on him, and give him some supper.”
“Have you got anything to put on him?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Bought it. It ain't much. All I got didn't cost a dollar.”
“A dollar is a good deal when you work and save for it the way we do.”
“Well, I don't know a better place to put it. Have you got any hot water? I'll use this tub at the cistern. Please give me some soap and towels.”
Instead Margaret pushed by him with a shriek. Billy had played by producing a cord from his pocket, and having tied the tails of Margaret's white kittens together, he had climbed on a box and hung them across the clothes line. Wild with fright the kittens were clawing each other to death, and the air was white with fur. The string had twisted and the frightened creatures could not recognize friends. Margaret stepped back with bleeding hands. Sinton cut the cord with his knife and the poor little cats raced under the house bleeding and disfigured. Margaret white with wrath faced Wesley.
“If you don't hitch up and take that animal back to town,” she said, “I will.”
Billy threw himself on the grass and began to scream.
“You said I could have fried chicken for supper,” he wailed. “You said she was a nice lady!”
Wesley lifted him and something in his manner of handling the child infuriated Margaret. His touch was so gentle. She reached for Billy and gripped his shirt collar in the back. Wesley's hand closed over hers.
“Gently, girl!” he said. “This little body is covered with sores.”
“Sores!” she ejaculated. “Sores? What kind of sores?”
“Oh, they might be from bruises made by fists or boot toes, or they might be bad blood, from wrong eating, or they might be pure filth. Will you hand me some towels?”
“No, I won't!” said Margaret.
“Well, give me some rags, then.”
Margaret compromised on pieces of old tablecloth. Wesley led Billy to the cistern, pumped cold water into the tub, poured in a kettle of hot, and beginning at the head scoured him. The boy shut his little teeth, and said never a word though he twisted occasionally when the soap struck a raw spot. Margaret watched the process from the window in amazed and ever-increasing anger. Where did Wesley learn it? How could his big hands be so gentle? He came to the door.
“Have you got any peroxide?” he asked.
“A little,” she answered stiffly.
“Well, I need about a pint, but I'll begin on what you have.”
Margaret handed him the bottle. Wesley took a cup, weakened the drug and said to Billy: “Man, these sores on you must be healed. Then you must eat the kind of food that's fit for little men. I am going to put some medicine on you, and it is going to sting like fire. If it just runs off, I won't use any more. If it boils, there is poison in these places, and they must be tied up, dosed every day, and you must be washed, and kept mighty clean. Now, hold still, because I am going to put it on.”
“I think the one on my leg is the worst,” said the undaunted Billy, holding out a raw place. Sinton poured on the drug. Billy's body twisted and writhed, but he did not run.
“Gee, look at it boil!” he cried. “I guess they's poison. You'll have to do it to all of them.”
Wesley's teeth were set, as he watched the boy's face. He poured the drug, strong enough to do effective work, on a dozen places over that little body and bandaged all he could. Billy's lips quivered at times, and his chin jumped, but he did not shed a tear or utter a sound other than to take a deep interest in the boiling. As Wesley put the small shirt on the boy, and fastened the trousers, he was ready to reset the hitching post and mend the fence without a word.
“Now am I clean?” asked Billy.
“Yes, you are clean outside,” said Wesley. “There is some dirty blood in your body, and some bad words in your mouth, that we have to get out, but that takes time. If we put right things to eat into your stomach that will do away with the sores, and if you know that I don't like bad words you won't say them any oftener than you can help, will you Billy?”
Billy leaned against Wesley in apparent indifference.
“I want to see me!” he demanded.
Wesley led the boy into the house, and lifted him to a mirror.
“My, I'm purty good-looking, ain't I?” bragged Billy. Then as Wesley stooped to set him on the floor Billy's lips passed close to the big man's ear and hastily whispered a vehement “No!” as he ran for the door.
“How long until supper, Margaret?” asked Wesley as he followed.
“You are going to keep him for supper?” she asked
“Sure!” said Wesley. “That's what I brought him for. It's likely he never had a good square meal of decent food in his life. He's starved to the bone.”
Margaret arose deliberately, removed the white cloth from the supper table and substituted an old red one she used to wrap the bread. She put away the pretty dishes they commonly used and set the table with old plates for pies and kitchen utensils. But she fried the chicken, and was generous with milk and honey, snowy bread, gravy, potatoes, and fruit.
Wesley repainted the scratched wheel. He mended the fence, with Billy holding the nails and handing the pickets. Then he filled the old hole, digged a new one and set the hitching post.
Billy hopped on one foot at his task of holding the post steady as the earth was packed around it. There was not the shadow of a trouble on his little freckled face.
Sinton threw in stones and pounded the earth solid around the post. The sound of a gulping sob attracted him to Billy. The tears were rolling down his cheeks. “If I'd a knowed you'd have to get down in a hole, and work so hard I wouldn't 'a' hit the horses,” he said.
“Never you mind, Billy,” said Wesley. “You will know next time, so you can think over it, and make up your mind whether you really want to before you strike.”
Wesley went to the barn to put away the tools. He thought Billy was at his heels, but the boy lagged on the way. A big snowy turkey gobbler resented the small intruder in his especial preserves, and with spread tail and dragging wings came toward him threateningly. If that turkey gobbler had known the sort of things with which Billy was accustomed to holding his own, he never would have issued the challenge. Billy accepted instantly. He danced around with stiff arms at his sides and imitated the gobbler. Then came his opportunity, and he jumped on the big turkey's back. Wesley heard Margaret's scream in time to see the flying leap and admire its dexterity. The turkey tucked its tail and scampered. Billy slid from its back and as he fell he clutched wildly, caught the folded tail, and instinctively clung to it. The turkey gave one scream and relaxed its muscles. Then it fled in disfigured defeat to the haystack. Billy scrambled to his feet holding the tail, while his eyes were bulging.
“Why,