"
"Yes. It's not the household we'd been expecting to find. It's a
lonely place, Missis." He looked at Sylvie. "I should think you'd
prefer going to some town."
"We're used to it here now," Bella answered.
"How'd your husband happen here, ma'am?"
"His health was poor; he'd heard of this climate, and he wanted to
try trapping. He got on first-rate until the illness came so bad on
him, and Pete's done well ever since. We haven't suffered any."
"No, I guess not. You don't look like you'd suffered."
The talk went on, an awkward, half-disguised cross-questioning as
to Bella's birthplace, her life before she came out, her husband's
antecedents. She was extraordinarily calm, ready and reasonable with
her replies.
"Well, sir"--the sheriff strolled back into the room--"I reckon these
aren't the parties we're after. But look a-here, this is a description
of Ham Rutherford. Likely you might have had a glimpse of him since
you came into the country. When he made his getaway he was about
thirty-two, height five feet eight, ugly, black-haired, noticeable
eyes, manner violent. He was deformed, one leg shorter, one shoulder
higher than the other, mouth twisted, and a scar across the nose.
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