“Where are we? Is it night?”
“I don’t truly know, but I think we’re in a cave, or some place under ground. I’ve been awake a long, long time. I thought you—you were—”
“Were what, brother? Hold me tight. I feel so queer. My head is whirling round and round. What did you think?”
“That, maybe, you were dead. And your head doesn’t whirl. How could it. Now don’t cry. You mustn’t, Carlota. You—must—not!”
“I haven’t no intention, so there. Just because I did once. I—besides, I promised not, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You’re real good, little sister.”
“Oh! you dear! That makes me feel better—almost straight-headed again. For it did whirl, Carlos, or it felt so. I wish I did know where we are. Is it always dark in caves, brother? And do folks ever get out of them?”
“Course. It’s not very high, and Benoni must be the most smartest horse there is in the whole world,” he answered, with an affected courage.
“You didn’t say good grammar that time, yourself, Carlos.”
“Never mind. I think we’re in a cave or covered up canyon that Benoni knew about and had seen sometime when he was roaming. Anyway, it’s a place he wouldn’t have come into except he was in trouble. A ‘norther’ is trouble—dreadfullest kind. People and horses die in them, often. We must have gone to sleep on his back and he crept in here with us and laid us all down together. He knew that way we’d keep warm. We did. I’m warm as pepper; aren’t you?”