“Sandy’s just Sandy,” she replied. “One of the best friends I ever had. I can’t remember the time when he wasn’t on hand looking after me.”
There was silence for a while, till Gard spoke again.
“I hate to make you walk,” he apologized, “You’ll be all tuckered out.”
“Not a bit,” she declared, stoutly. “You must be new to the desert, if you don’t know what miles people can walk here, without getting tired.”
The bronze of his face was tinged with a faint red.
“No,” said he, “I ain’t new to the desert. Not much I ain’t new; even—” with a mortified laugh—“if I did let my bronco throw me. I guess, though, I’m new to little girls,” he continued. “Seem’s if you ought to be tired. You don’t look so very big.”
“I’m strong, though.” Somehow, his assumption that she was a little girl gave Helen a pleasant sense of ease in his company. She glanced up at him again, and was startled to see how pale he had grown, under his tan. His forehead was knit with pain, and his teeth were set against one lip.
“I wish I could do something for you!” she cried, in quick sympathy. “But we’re nearly there; and Father’s as good as a doctor, any day.”
“It’s all right,” he muttered. “I was just a fool. I thought I’d see if I couldn’t get down and walk; so I tried putting that foot in the stirrup.”
“That was a clever thing to do,” Helen scolded, “I see you do not know how to believe people when they say they are not tired.”