“Gone,” she said dolorously. “He fell—over there—and threw me. I saw Chavis—and Kester—over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me, and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I’ve hurt my ankle—and I couldn’t catch him—my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate—I could have killed him! I couldn’t walk, you know—my ankle, and the snakes—and the awful darkness, and—Oh, Randerson,” she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, “I never was so glad to see you—anybody—in my life!”
“I reckon it was kind of lonesome for you out here alone with the snakes, an’ the dark, an’ things.”
She was over her scare now, he knew—as he was over his fears for her, and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling.
“I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some,” he added, “for they’re natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darkness on purpose to scare you.”
“How can you joke about it?” she demanded resentfully.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said with quick contrition. “You see, I was glad to find you. An’ you’re all right now, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, quickly forgiving. “I suppose I am a coward.”
“Why, no, ma’am, I reckon you ain’t. Anybody sittin’ here alone, a woman, especial, would likely think a lot of curious thoughts. They’d seem real. I reckon it was your ankle, that kept you from walkin’.”
“It hurts terribly,” she whispered, and she felt of it, looking at him plaintively. “It is so swollen I can’t get my boot off. And the leather seems like an iron band around it.” She looked pleadingly at him. “Won’t you please take it off?”
His embarrassment was genuine and deep.