“I must go,” he said, starting up. “I’ve lost too much time already.”
“If you’re aiming to lose time,” said she, “go by all means. But if you want to get safely to wherever you were riding, you’ll stand a better chance after nightfall, and especially after those fellows pass here on their way back. Otherwise you might run into them at the gate. There’s much less traveling at night on these roads. Only the patrols. And they generally sing to keep from falling asleep in their saddles. So you’ll probably hear them in time to get out of their way. Oh, and I sneaked out and fed and watered your horse.”
Inclination for once sided with common-sense, and Dad sank back again in the big chair. The thought that this utterly charming little woman might be annoyed by a search of her house on his account sent his hand involuntarily to his pistol holster.
It was empty.
With a thrill of dismay the man realized that he must make the rest of his perilous journey weaponless.
He remembered thrusting back the revolver into its holster after his brush with the guerrillas on the byroad. He had thrust it back carelessly. And hard riding had evidently caused it to slip out of its resting place and tumble, unnoted by him, to the ground.
His start of surprise drew the little lady’s attention.
“What ails you?” she asked solicitously. “Does the wound hurt?”
“I wish it did,” he replied in the ponderous gallantry which suddenly had seemed to come so easy to him, “so that I might get you to bind it for me again. But it is something more important than a petty scratch on the forearm that bothers me just now. I’ve somehow lost my pistol. I have no weapon to protect you in case those ruffians should try to come in; and no weapon to protect myself for the balance of my ride.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!” she sympathized. “It beats all how careless a man is about losing weapons. Ehud was just like that with his razors.