“But he’s on your mind, eh?” suggested Pratt, earnestly. “Just as well I came along with you,” and he laughed.
“So Mack says,” returned Frances, with an answering smile.
Was she expecting an attack? Would Ratty come back? Was the man, Pete, lurking in some hollow or buffalo wallow? She scanned the horizon from time to time and wondered.
The sun sank to sleep in a bed of gold and crimson. Pink and lavender tints flecked the cloud-coverlets he tucked about him.
It was full sunset and still the party was delayed. The mules stamped and rattled their harness. They were impatient to get on to their suppers and the freedom of the corral.
“We’ll sure be too late for supper at Miz’ Peckham’s,” grumbled Mack.
“Oh, you’re only troubled about your eats,” joked Pratt.
At that moment Frances uttered a little cry. Both Pratt and the teamster looked up at her inquiringly.
“What’s the matter, Frances?” asked the young fellow.
“I–I thought I saw a light, away over there where the sun is going down.”