“I’m not, Pearse. I just know the ways out here a little better. And I don’t know them so very well. Maybe, after all, you’ll let me go to Uncle Hank and ask—”
She stopped there. The blue eyes that had been laughing were suddenly full of anxiety; the voice, too, was anxious as Pearse said:
“You’ve been awfully good to me, Hilda—a regular brick in every way. Now you won’t go and spoil it all by—” He broke off, frowning. Hilda stared at him apprehensively. Finally, he said:
“I’ll make a bargain with you; no use pretending that I like the man you call Uncle Hank, or that I enjoy the idea of meeting him again. But I will some time. I’ll come back some time when I can walk up the front steps. I’d never have sneaked in here to hide if I’d known he was manager of the ranch; but as I have done so, and found you again, Hilda, and we’re such good friends—I’ll come back. Now let’s forget it.”
Words wouldn’t come. Hilda felt sure that if she’d tried to make them, tears would, instead. She just shook her head silently. That might have meant anything. Pearse seemed to think that it meant she agreed to what he said.
“All right;” the gruffness and rasp were out of his voice now. “Let’s just talk about ourselves, then. When I get over to New Mexico I’ll write back to you. You and I aren’t going to quarrel because of any one else—are we? We’ll always be great friends.”
“Oh, always—always!” That was what Hilda said, with all her heart—and wondered at herself a little for saying it. How could she be friends with one that wasn’t friends with Uncle Hank? Yet she must be—she must. And maybe, some day, when she and Pearse had been good friends for a long while, she’d get him to think differently about Hank—she’d be the peacemaker between them. Anyhow, there wasn’t much time now—she couldn’t waste any of it arguing with herself.
She got Shorty—Shorty was close-mouthed, and he seldom asked questions—to shoe her pony Sunday on his front feet, and the night upon which they had agreed that Pearse must get away she used the utmost of her influence with Sam Kee to get the necessary provision of food. She had a little money—her small hoard toward the joys of Christmas. It was eleven o’clock when she was able at last to slip down cellar and bring back her guest. They had a night of white moonlight for the enterprise, such a night as only the high plains country ever sees. It appeared that every object was as clearly visible as by day, yet all was subtly changed, flooded with mysterious beauty.
The low, spreading ranchhouse silently brooded its sleepers; but cottonwood leaves whispered loud in a light night breeze above the little stream that flashed its myriads of sparkles back to the moon. The Willow Nixies over by the tank were dimly visible, bowing down as at some magic affair of their own. Suddenly, upon the lonely stillness, a mocking bird gave voice. Up from deep, deep, ancient wells that song bubbled, liquid, divine. The boy stood a moment and hearkened, Hilda watching, breathless, furtive. He made an impatient gesture and moved on. Without a word, the Sunday horse was led out from where Hilda had tied him. She went to a peg on which hung a handsome saddle, bridle and saddlecloth.
“They were papa’s,” she said.