“I can’t bear to think of leaving you alone up here,” he protested vehemently. “Why not let me stay and you go down to the wagons?”
“There’s not the slightest danger. He’s done his work for the present, and it may be a long time before I’m again molested.”
“Whom do you mean?” he asked quickly.
“A ‘breed’ named Mullendore that hates me.”
“Do you mean to say,” incredulously, “that since you know who did it, he’ll ever have another opportunity?”
“I can’t prove it; and, besides,” bitterly, “you don’t know Prouty.”
With a swift transition of mood she crept into his arms voluntarily, crying chokingly:
“Hold me close, Hughie! I feel so safe with your arms about me, as though nothing or nobody could hurt me ever!”
In the morning Kate drove down to the camp at daylight the few sheep that had not eaten enough of the saltpeter to kill them, or had missed it altogether—only a small percentage of the valuable herd that had started up the mountain.