She knew the cook; it was Limpy Phillips of the C Bar C. He only made one or two derogatory remarks about children at roundups. When he was busy at his covered pots and Dutch ovens in their trench, she earned toleration by mutely handing him the thing he needed from the chuck wagon. At five minutes to twelve he straightened up and told her she might go tell her Uncle Hank that dinner was ready, and she better look sharp and mind that the whole blame herd didn’t run over her and stamp her flatter’n a flapjack.
She got to the branding pen. Uncle Hank came to its bars. She was just about to give her message, when something in the old man’s face stopped her. He was looking toward Shorty, who came galloping, a hand up, his mouth open. She knew Shorty must be calling, though in the din of the roundup she couldn’t hear any word. Uncle Hank jumped the bars and ran toward the oncoming rider, and then she got the cowpuncher’s voice.
“Pearsall—Charley’s hurt.”
With one motion Hank swung around, flung the reins over Buckskin’s head, was on him and away. The two men galloped side by side. Hilda began to run. She had no memory of the cook’s errand, no fear of the herd or the hard-driven horses. She ran desperately, blindly, till stopped by old Snake Thompson’s voice and hand.
She was picked up as a big dog picks up a puppy. Old Snake had scooped her from the ground in the manner of a cowpuncher lifting a handkerchief in a display of fancy riding.
“Lookee here,” he said with irrelevant wisdom, “children should be saw, not heard. What in time are you doing here?”
“My papa—he’s hurt—”
“Where’s he at?”
“Over there.” She pointed. “Uncle Hank went—Shorty—Oh, hurry!”
Thompson began circling toward the other side of the herd, Hilda on the saddle in front of him. McGregor of the Cross K thundered up behind them.