"That's right."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Jeff Tarrant and I'm a peddler. Put your gun down."
"Well--" He lowered the shotgun. Two tears broke from his eyes and he
shook them off with an angry whirl of his head. Jeff extended his hand.
"Maybe you'd better let me have the gun."
"It--it isn't loaded. I didn't have any money to buy shells!"
Jeff said gently, "Taking a bit of a chance, weren't you? What if you'd
pulled it on someone with a gun that was loaded?"
"I--I don't know."
"This is really your dad's dog?"
"I ought to know him."
"He doesn't seem especially happy to see you."
"I--I only saw him twice. Last time a year ago. But it's my pop's!"
"Who are you, son?"
"Dan Blazer."
"And where is your pop?"
"Dead!" Dan said fiercely. "Shot by those--Whitneys!"
He whirled so that his back was to Jeff, put both grimy hands to his
eyes, and shook with sobs. Pal looked worried. Jeff strode swiftly
across the floor, knelt beside the sobbing youngster, gathered him up,
and sat with him on a homemade wooden chair whose back and seat were of
laced buckskin. Laying his head on Jeff's shoulder, Dan sobbed
unrestrainedly. Then he wriggled, turned away quickly so that Jeff could
not see his face, and slid to the floor. He wiped his eyes with a
handkerchief that was almost as dirty as his face. When he turned again
to Jeff, he was calmer.
"Cry baby!" he accused himself. "Big cry baby!"
"Come here, Dan," Jeff said gently.
"What do you want?"
"To talk to you, and I've seen men cry over a whole lot less."
"Really?" The thought seemed a reassuring one.
"Really. Where is your mother?"
"She died when I was--When I was just a child." He spoke quietly. His
mother had died so long ago that all pangs were gone.
"I see. What were you doing when these--uh--when these Whitneys shot
your pop?"
"I was in Ackerton." Dan named the nearest city.