Hilda’s heart stood still. But Sam Kee never glanced toward her.
“I see ’um you,” he grunted, looking Daniels up and down, and turned aside to his pie-making.
The men grinned.
“Look-a here, you don’t want to get fresh with me.” Daniels’s face was red. “You never can get nothing out of a Chink,” he growled. “Scatter out, boys, and search the yard.”
The yard! Hilda shook so that she could hardly walk; but she followed them. Sam Kee’s hen-house gave up nothing; the shrubbery was inspected without profit. They finally trailed down to the spring for a drink, preparatory to riding away baffled, if not satisfied. Hilda was so close after them that it brought Uncle Hank along, though it had been his thought to speed them, somewhat stiffly, from the porch steps.
Right at the edge where the fugitive had stopped to drink Hilda saw footprints.
“Whose tracks are these?” demanded the sheriff, bending to them. “By jinks! They’re mighty like those we found where that feller’d camped last night.”
“They’re mine, I guess,” Hilda spoke out very loud, because she was so afraid to speak at all.
“Come here, Pearsall,” called Daniels. “Listen to what this young lady says. She never made these tracks.” He glanced curiously at Hilda’s flamboyant attire.
“I’m not a lady!” The small hands flew up to Hilda’s breast in a startled gesture. “I’m just a little girl. This is a—a play dress.” She looked down at the footprints, and the world about her wavered toward the awful calamity, but she went on gallantly: “When I’m playing sometimes I wear different clothes and different shoes.”