“Good news,” he cried. “To-day’s work brings our credit with the old man up to an even fifty dollars. Not so bad for a poor hobo, is it, now?”
He caught sight of my face and became all sympathy. “Why, sweetheart, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“N-no, not sick exactly,” I faltered, with lips that persisted in quivering a trifle.
“Well, you look awfully queer, some way. Has that old cat been bothering you again?”
“Yes,” I murmured. “She’s pretty mean, and it’s been so hot, and I—oh, I guess I’m about played out.”
He gently led me to a spot as far removed from the Adams’ camp as possible, made a couple of trips to the wagons and brought back our bedding, a few cooking utensils and some food for supper. Then he induced me to lie down, while he built a fire and prepared the meal.
“Poor little girl,” he murmured. “I know all this is mighty rough on you, but if I can only keep on as I’ve been doing for the past three weeks, it won’t be so very long till we can ride the cushions home in comfort. Meantime, leave the old cat alone as much as possible, and try not to take the situation too seriously.”
It seemed that I had scarcely fallen asleep when I was awakened by a consciousness of something wrong. The night was dark, but judging from the stars, it was about midnight. What was it that had aroused me? I lay still and listened.
There came a tinkling of trace chains from the other side of the big cattle pen where the Adams’ camp lay. Pshaw, it was only one of the mules, nosing around the camp in search of fruit parings, as he often did. I lay back reassured and dozed once more.
Again that premonition came; that peculiar instinct that thrills one into vivid wakefulness in the midst of quiet slumber. Again I sat up with a start. Again I heard mysterious noises from the direction of the other camp. I took my husband by the arm.