“Those are the folks. Their ranch, the Alamositas, is next biggest after the J I C—the ranch I’m with—in Encinal County. I’ve never been to headquarters on the Alamositas, but I understand it’s a fine place. Say, Hilda”—a moment of listening—“I’ve got to get out of here.”
She held to his sleeve, and couldn’t utter a word. He hesitated, embarrassed.
“I will write to you, then, if you—if you think it’s all right. Look out for my letters. Don’t let any one else get hold of them.”
“Will you, Pearse—will you? I’ll watch for the letters. Nobody shall see them—and—oh, Pearse—must you go?”
She heard the faint sound of hoof-beats coming nearer, from the direction of the herd. The boys and Uncle Hank would be here in a minute. Pearse caught her hand with a whispered:
“There they come. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” she echoed whisperingly, then looked down at her empty hands. He was gone. The men were clattering in. She ran toward the fire, arriving just as Uncle Hank, with Buster and several of the Sandoval County men, rode up.
“Buster, I’ll get that salve for you,” the foreman was saying. “A rope burn is about the meanest kind of a—”
He broke off abruptly. Hilda, stooping to feed the fire in order to cover her confusion, had not noticed that he was rummaging in the wagon. Glancing up, she saw him back away from the vehicle and put his hand to his head.
“Pettie,” he said softly, “come here, honey.” And as she approached he added still lower: “Am I losing my wits—or is there—a—er—a saddle—?”