Pratt was pale, as could be seen where his face was not smudged with earth and axle-grease. He came and accepted his pony’s bridle from Frances’ hand.
“What shall we do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
It was plain that the teamster had little idea of what was wise or best to do. The young fellow turned to Frances of the ranges quite as a matter of course. Evidently, she knew so much more about the perilous circumstances than he did that Pratt was not ashamed to take Frances’ commands.
“This is goin’ to be a hot corner,” the teamster drawled again; but Pratt waited for the girl to speak.
“Are you frightened, Pratt?” she asked, suddenly, looking down at him from her saddle, and smiling rather wistfully.
“Not yet,” said the young fellow. “I expect I shall be if it is very terrible.”
“But you don’t expect me to be scared?” asked Frances, still gravely.
“I don’t think it is your nature to show apprehension,” returned he.
“I’m not like other girls, you mean. That girl from Boston, for instance?” Frances said, looking away at the line of fire again. “Well!” and she sighed. “I am not, I suppose. With daddy I’ve been up against just such danger as this before. You never saw a prairie fire, Pratt?”
“No, ma’am!” exclaimed Pratt. “I never did.”