some country ain't been healthy for Em'ly to live in. It ain't for some humans. Them old trappers in the mountains gets skewed in the haid mighty often, an' talks out loud when nobody's nigher 'n a hundred miles."
"Em'ly has not been solitary," I replied. "There are forty chickens here."
"That's so," said he. "It don't explain her."
He fell silent again, riding beside me, easy and indolent in the saddle. His long figure looked so loose and inert that the swift, light spring he made to the ground seemed an impossible feat. He had seen an antelope where I saw none.
"Take a shot yourself," I urged him, as he motioned me to be quick. "You never shoot when I'm with you."
"I ain't hyeh for that," he answered. "Now you've let him get away on yu'!"
The antelope had in truth departed.
"Why," he said to my protest, "I can hit them things any day. What's your notion as to Em'ly?"
"I can't account for her," I replied.
"Well," he said musingly, and then his mind took one of those particular turns that made me love him, "Taylor ought to see her. She'd be just the schoolmarm for Bear Creek!"
"She's not much like the eating-house lady at Medicine Bow," I said.
He gave a hilarious chuckle. "No, Em'ly knows nothing o' them joys. So yu' have no notion about her? Well, I've got one. I reckon maybe she was hatched after a big thunderstorm."
"A big thunderstorm!" I exclaimed.
