“Yes, I understood—part. I knew that only Jim Barlow could make such a curious D as was on the stone and the basket. I supposed you were alive somewhere and I tried to think you were all right. By the way, the lambkin is thriving and we’ve named it after you—Netty!”
“What? Why Netty, if you please?”
Dorothy laughed and explained. She was ready now to laugh at anything and so was he: she made him finish his story, which he promptly did.
After he had sent the basket-message he had grown worse. He was delirious and did not know what went on about him. He thought it was the bad water from the old tank that increased his fever, and was sure it was that which had made the sheep herder himself fall ill. So before his strength came back he had to turn nurse himself and attend upon Alaric. He had now recovered enough to go away to his employer’s ranch for a few days. Meanwhile Jim was keeping the sheep for his host with little José for company.
Dorothy listened, asking questions now and then, and finally inquired:
“Is this Alaric an Indian?”
“No. A Mexican, a Greaser. He married an Indian princess, the sister of White Feather.”
“How came you by that Indian rig? costume, I mean.”
Jim laughed. “White Feather again. At first I hadn’t anything to wear but a ragged pair of trousers which Alaric lent me, though he hated to, and a blanket for a coat. But a few days ago White Feather and his braves came this way again. He brought quite a collection of old duds and gave ’em to Alaric. That paid him for what he’d lent me, I guess. And some of White Feather’s folks have always given little José his Indian fixings, too. Else—Well, he wouldn’t have had much to wear. Ain’t he cute?”
“Indeed, he is. Looks exactly like a tiny White Feather himself. The dear!” answered Dorothy, helping herself to another piece of bread and breaking it in bits to feed the child, who smiled and swallowed in great glee. “But your suit? You haven’t told about that yet.”