For, whether the chest was recovered or not, Frances proposed to go right on in the morning to Amarillo.
She did not awaken when Mr. Peckham and his men returned; but Frances was up at daybreak and came into the kitchen for breakfast. Mrs. Peckham was bustling about just as she had been the night before when the girl from the Bar-T retired.
“Hard luck, Miss Frances!” the good lady cried. “Them men ain’t worth more’n two bits a dozen, when it comes to sending ’em out on a trail. They never got your trunk for you at all!”
“And they did not catch the man who stopped us at the ford?”
“Of course not. John Peckham never could catch anything but a cold.”
“But where could he have gone–that man, I mean?” queried Frances.
“Give it up! One party went up stream and t’other down. Your friend, Mr. Sanderson, went with the first party.”
“Oh, yes,” Frances commented. “That would be on his way to the Edwards ranch where he is staying.”
“Well, mebbe. They say he was mighty anxious to find your trunk. He’s an awful nice young man—”
“Where’s Mack?” asked Frances, endeavoring to stem the tide of the lady’s speech.