Rawley chanced to look out of the window. He muttered something then and strode to the screened door.
“Hey! You aren’t going back up that trail, surely?” He went out hurriedly and took long steps after Nevada.
The girl turned and looked at him over her shoulder, flinging back a heavy braid of coppery auburn hair. She had Pickles by his lead rope and was plainly heading into the trail to Nelson.
“Why, yes. There’s a load of grub beside the trail where Deacon upset. I’m going after it.”
Rawley rushed back, seized his hat, sent an anxious glance toward the bed and then ran. He overtook Nevada just at the edge of the basin and stopped her by the simple method of stopping the burro with a strong hand.
“You go back and sit beside Johnny,” he commanded. “I’ll get that grub, myself. And if you’ve got a rifle, I’d like to borrow it.”
“That’s utter nonsense—your going,” Nevada exclaimed. “I meant to take one of the boys—I just sent him in to wash his face, first.”
Rawley laughed. “Do you think a clean face on a kid will have any effect on Queo? You’ll both stay at home, please. I’m going.”
“If you’re determined, I can’t very well stop you,” she said coldly. “But I certainly am going. I always do these things. There’s no possible reason—”
Rawley looked over at the nearest shack, where Aunt Gladys stood watching them, the baby still on her hip. “Mrs. Cramer, I am going up after the grub we left by the trail. Will you see that Johnny Buffalo is looked after? And will you call Miss Macalister’s grandmother, or whoever has any authority over her?” His voice was stern, but the twinkle in his eyes belied the tone.