Find him she would, and that no matter how cunningly Bud had hidden him away.
On a rope stretched between a young cottonwood tree in full leaf and a scaly, red-barked cedar, clothes that had been washed were flapping lazily in the little breeze.

Marie stopped and looked at them.

A man's shirt and drawers, two towels gray for want of bluing, a little shirt and a nightgown and pair of stockings--and, directly in front of Marie, a small pair of blue overalls trimmed with red bands, the blue showing white fiber where the color had been scrubbed out of the cloth, the two knees flaunting patches sewed with long irregular stitches such as a man would take.
Bud and Lovin Child.

As in the cabin, so here she felt the individuality in their belongings.

Last night she had been tormented with the fear that there might be a wife as well as a baby boy in Bud's household.
Even the evidence of the mail order, that held nothing for a woman and that was written by Bud's hand, could scarcely reassure her.