Then she ran through the dining-room to her bedroom, struck a match, dragged a bench under the medicine-shelf, climbed upon it and let her light shine in turn upon each of the bottles standing in a row.
The match went out. With a murmured exclamation she got down, searched for her hat in the dark room, found it and put it on, caught up a yellow sun umbrella, and locked both entrances to the house. A moment later, she was hurrying across the street, over the track and into the desert.
She soon came up to the men and the burros, travelling silently forward. But at first she kept a little way behind, like a scared child, for she shrank from letting Patton know that she was there. Presently, however, summoning courage, she went forward to his side. “H-Harvey,” she stammered. Her face was white in the dimness.
He came short; Blandy, too. Both stared at her in wonderment.
“What do you want?” Patton demanded, resentment in his tone. “It’s too late for you to be gadding around alone.”
“Harv, I’m going with you. Walking isn’t hard work—not any harder than the work in the kitchen was. Jeff, you don’t care if I come along, do you?”
“You bet I don’t,” Blandy answered heartily. “You’ll be fine comp’ny.”
“Nonsense!” scolded Patton.
“Wal, she’s the third pardner,” reminded Blandy. “When you come to think of it, she’s got a right to look over her claim. If she gits tired, she can ride a donk. But a-course”—his tone became more serious—“there’s one thing agin your goin’: We three is the only people that know where that strike is; if anything was to happen to the bunch of us, there’d be a lost mine for shore.” He clucked to his burro and walked on.
His words produced a curious effect upon Patton, who stayed where he was, silently looking after Blandy until the latter was well beyond earshot.