Gerty found a significance in his words, he had said “Mr. Hardin,” and “your husband, Mrs. Blinn.” It was enough to weave dreams around.
“A nap,” exclaimed Mrs. Blinn, “why, he didn’t come home.”
“I think I saw him go into the men’s quarters.” Distinctly Rickard had heard Blinn’s jolly voice as he had left the levee: “If I’m to catch a nap, I’ll not go home. No sleeping there!”
“We can’t do anything, Mr. Rickard, to help?” urged Gerty Hardin, her voice tremulous.
“I hope we won’t have to call on you at all.”
There was no excuse to linger. Gerty threw a wistful little smile at parting.
The brown mare’s head was turned toward the country. Rickard turned back to the bank.
He looked again at the plate-glass windows. Two words were finished, The Desert, brilliant in gold-leaf. The rest of the sign still stood in its dim skeleton! Boyish mischievous blood raced in his veins that morning. He went in.
“Mr. Petrie in?” he asked the cashier. Young Oliver said he was not. “He is tying vines to-day.”
“When are you going to finish that window?”