“Say, now, don’t make me go down there on the high road!” he pleaded; “some one might see me and tell the boss. I won’t touch the consarned dog if you’ll give me the gun; I won’t, honest! The boss, he thinks I’m on the range now, an’ it’s where I had ort to be.”
I was sorry for him, but my fear was greater than my sympathy. Guard had torn the skirt of his coat in such a manner that it trailed behind as he walked, like a long and very disreputable pennant, and I could not be blind to the malevolent looks that he turned on my canine follower in spite of his fair promises.
“I never heard of any one’s being the better for drinking whiskey,” I volunteered, as a bit of information that might be of interest to him. Then I started on again, to be brought to an abrupt halt by hearing a voice on the trail below calling in a tone of piercing anxiety:
“Leslie! Leslie! Leslie!” The voice was Jessie’s.
“Jessie, I am here!” I called back re-assuringly, and ran down in the direction of the voice, leaving the cowboy staring.
In a moment I came face to face with my sister as she panted, breathless, up the trail.
“Oh, Leslie! Leslie!” she gasped. “What a chase I have had after you!”
“Why did you follow me? I have the cows—or they have themselves—and your skirts are all wet.”
For answer, Jessie gazed at me with an expression curiously compounded of horror and dismay.