“Right now. Down to our place.”
“In the middle of the night, an’ three foot of snow? How far is it?”
“About twelve miles. Fork of Sand Coulee, a couple of miles down in the breaks.”
“Gosh, man,” Charlie remonstrated. “Unless it’s a case of life an’ death this ain’t no night to flounder that far in the Bad Lands. Chances are you wouldn’t find it till daylight.”
“I could find that ranch blindfold,” young Bill said, with conviction. “It worries me. He won’t tell me nothin’. I got to go. He’s been wanderin’ around in this for twenty hours. He ain’t the flighty kind, either. Took somethin’ to scare him out.”
“Just what are you afraid might have come off?” Charlie asked. He had the impression that Bill Mather wanted to tell him something and couldn’t, wouldn’t, without encouragement. “What’s the trouble, Bill?”
“Maybe none—till I get there,” the youngster said moodily. “Maybe—well, there’s a girl there. Aw, shucks! there’s no use talkin’. She was raised with us, but she ain’t no kin. I used to think a heap of her. I got a brother, Jed. There’s a feller name uh Munson got a holdout a ways below our place. I don’t know what there is about Dolly, but she gets men crazy. Them two’s been ready to lock horns over her for a year. I had to get out. Don’t matter why. Now somethin’s happened. Somethin’ fierce, to make the old man light out in weather like it was last night. He won’t say. He’s that kind. I got to go see.”
There was that in his tone which moved Charlie.
“No matter what’s come off,” he said kindly, “you couldn’t hardly make it tonight, Bill. Wait till daybreak. I’ll ride down with you, myself.”
“I got to go now,” Mather replied. “She’s alone down there—with them two locoed fools. An’ somethin’s happened.”