"Up at the house. He allowed you wouldn't tech me. But," she added,
dully, "I'd liefer you killed me than not."
Bender's anger had already passed. Rough pity now took its place. His
furious strength prevented him from realizing the killing drudgery, the
lugging of heavy water-buckets, the milking, feeding of pigs, the hard
labor which had killed her spirit and left this utter hopelessness; but
he knew by experience that a young horse should not be put to a heavy
draw, and here was a violation of the precept. Bender was puzzled. Had
he come on a neighbor maltreating a horse, a curse backed by his heavy
fist would have righted the wrong; but this frail creature's humanity
placed her wrongs outside his rough remedial practice.
He whistled, swore softly, and, failing to invoke inspiration by these
characteristic methods, he said, kindly: "Well, for onct Jed tol' the
truth. Must have strained him some. Go ahead, I ain't agoing to bother
you."
Having finished raking his own hay, he fell to work with the fork,
stabbing huge bunches, throwing them right and left, striving to work
off the pain at his heart. But pity grew with exertion, and, pausing
midway of the morning, he saw that she also was plying a weary fork.
"You need a rest," he growled five minutes later. "Sit down."