“How you rescued her from the quicksand.”
Dakota’s gaze was still on his visitor, quiet, intent. “She tell you anything else?” he questioned slowly.
“Why, what else is there to tell?” There was sincere curiosity in Langford’s voice, for Sheila had always told him everything that happened to her. It was not like her to keep anything secret from him.
“Did she tell you that she forgot to thank me for saving her?” There was a queer smile on Dakota’s lips, a peculiar, pleased glint in his eyes.
“No, she neglected to relate that,” returned Langford.
“Forgot it. That’s what I thought. Do you think she forgot it intentionally?”
“It wouldn’t be like her.”
“Of course not. And so she’s sent you over to thank me! Tell her no thanks are due. And if she inquires, tell her that the pony didn’t make a sound or a struggle when I shot him.”
“As it happens, she didn’t send me,” smiled Langford. “There was the excitement, of course, and I presume she forgot to thank you—possibly will ride over herself some day to thank you personally. But she didn’t send me—I came without her knowledge.”
“To thank me—for her?”