“Yes, do!” begged King, but Mrs. Cullis only smiled and shook her head.
“Run along, now,” she cried gaily, “and don’t forget the game.”
“We’ll not be gone long,” King assured her. “I wish you’d come with us.”
“Sweet boy,” thought Margaret Cullis as the door closed behind them leaving her alone. “Sweet boy, but not very truthful.”
As Wichita and King stepped out into the crisp, cool air of an Arizona night the voice of the sentry at the guard house rang out clearly against the silence: “Number One, eight o’clock!” They paused to listen as the next sentry passed the call on: “Number Two, eight o’clock. All’s well!” Around the chain of sentries it went, fainter in the distance, growing again in volume to the final, “All’s well!” of Number One.
“I thought you said it was a gorgeous night,” remarked Wichita Billings. “There is no moon, it’s cloudy and dark as a pocket.”
“But I still insist that it is gorgeous,” said King, smiling. “All Arizona nights are.”
“I don’t like these black ones,” said Wichita; “I’ve lived in Indian country too long. Give me the moon every time.”
“They scarcely ever attack at night,” King reminded her.
“I know, but there may always be an exception to prove the rule.”