“Were you down here this morning?”
“Yes. I was here. I was right where I could see this place all morning.”
“Where you could see this place?” The sheriff repeated her words, and Hilda’s tortured eye sought the woodbine lattice which masked the window of the cyclone cellar. They were all watching her. Hank came at a stride and took his position beside her. She almost wished he hadn’t come. He was sure to look at the vine stems and see what she saw.
Her captive must have opened the shutter; she thought she could make out the faint white blur of his face inside there. She dragged her gaze away and looked dumbly at the men about her. Had she betrayed him, after all? Would they take him out and kill him, through her fault?
“Well?” demanded the sheriff, impatiently. “Speak up, little girl—and be quick about it, too.”
But at that Uncle Hank bristled.
“See here, Daniels, the child may say she’s not a lady, yet, but you’ve got to treat her like one. She’s Miss Hildegarde Van Brunt; she and her little brother are owners of the Three Sorrows ranch, and I’m her paid manager.”
It gave Hilda a strange thrill to hear herself thus set forth by Uncle Hank. It was as though she had all at once grown years older. The sheriff stepped back a bit, and a fumbling hand found and removed his hat.
“Well, Miss Van Brunt,” he said, “I’ve come on your ranch kind of sudden; but I had no intention of being rough. I was obliged to search—you ain’t no objection to that, have you? I didn’t aim to make no trouble for you. You’re willing for us to search, ain’t you?”
Hilda looked mutely to Uncle Hank.