“Sure, she’s willing,” assented the old man. “Hilda’s not very tall, but she’s a law-abiding citizen. If they’s any help she can give you to ketch up with a criminal, she’ll do it gladly.”
Every trusting word was to Hilda a blow. She was keeping the presence of the fugitive a secret from Uncle Hank; she was going to do that and more. It was strange that it could be right—and yet it was. She was sorry for the old man, with a great rush of compassion which she herself could not understand. She caught his arm and clung to it, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve—but she never wavered in her determination to tell him nothing.
“I had to foller my duty, wherever it led,” Daniels continued, defensively.
“Whoo—ee! Whoo—ee!” came a hail from the man posted down by the gate.
They turned to hearken.
“Come on, boys. Nothing doing there. Billy’s got the track of that pony up yonder in the road.”
Without a word, the sheriff and his men ran to their horses, and in a moment’s time there was no reminder of their presence or their errand left but a little dust.
Uncle Hank and Hilda stood alone. The old man brought his gaze back from following the last departing rider, and it encountered the queer little figure beside him. He took her by the shoulder, looked a bit anxiously in her face, and said:
“I was hunting for you, Pettie, to tell you that I may not be home to-night before ten o’clock. Shorty’s getting cattle ready for shipment, out in the Spring Creek pasture, and like’s not I’ll have to stay at the camp there till late. But this pesky business of Sheriff Daniels coming up this-a-way—you going to be afraid here alone in the house with just old Sam Kee?”
“Oh, no, Uncle Hank—not a bit afraid!” she cried.