“I’m so used to having bad times,” thought the little girl wrapping her arms tight about her body as if for company, “that I can stand them. But Ma McBirney isn’t used to them. She’ll just fret herself crazy.”
She had perfect confidence in the ability of her friends to find her. She had thought all that out in that strange, dangerous drive at night through the old wood-road. People like Pa McBirney and Mr. Carson weren’t the kind to give up hunting for her.
“I’ve just got to lie low,” thought this child who had seen too much of the ways of a prowling company of folk, “and take care of myself the best way I can, and I’ll be found. I’ll be back in Ma McBirney’s house all right and tight in a little while. I’m going to believe that and say it over and over. I’m not going to be scared, nor sorry, nor anything. Jim and Hi will think I’m a silly thing to let myself be picked up and carried away like that, anyway. They’ll think I haven’t a bit of grit. But I’ll show them I’m not such a stupid goose after all.”
She made up her mind, too, that she would try not to think too much about Ma McBirney. If she did she would get to crying again, and she didn’t want to cry. She wanted to think, and to watch, and to be wise and act at the right moment. And having reached that conclusion, she sat up in bed with something almost like brightness on her face. And at that Tige, the bulldog, sat up too and showed all of his teeth as he gave a low growl. Tige was a good dog according to his lights; and his lights told him that when his master, Rafe Bowen—according to Tige, the most wonderful master in the world—told him to “watch,” why then, he was to watch; nay he was to sleep with one eye open and both ears alert.
“For goodness sake, Tige,” whispered Azalea, leaning forward and putting out her hand toward the dog, “be sensible, can’t you? I’ve got to move sometimes, haven’t I?”
Betty Bowen threw her brown arms up over her frowsy head.
“Keep still, you, Zalie,” she snarled sleepily. “Don’t you see I’m dead beat?”
So for two hours longer the restless girl had to lie still in her bed, though it became almost an agony to do so, while the tired show woman slept on and on. After a time, however, the little camp came to life. Rafe got up and demanded breakfast. Betty straggled out, heavy-eyed and slatternly, and set forth some cold food which Azalea could not swallow. The horses were fed, the wagon greased, and all was got in readiness for a hasty flight if necessary. Azalea helped as they directed her, and she managed to find a chance to wash carefully as Ma McBirney had taught her, and she combed her hair with a little side comb, and made herself look as well as she could.
“You’ve got mighty fine ways since you’ve been living out,” remarked Betty Bowen teasingly. Azalea looked at her as candidly as she would have looked at Ma McBirney, for someway, in spite of all her anger, she was feeling sorry for Bet Bowen this morning.
“Yes, Mrs. Bowen,” she said. “I have been taught some nice ways. Mrs. McBirney is the neatest woman you ever saw. Of course my own mamma tried to teach me things, but what was the use, when we didn’t have any way to keep nice? You can’t keep clean and fresh on the road, can you?”