“He–he–why, he isn’t sick at all! I was sent up there on a fool’s errand, and just on plucking-day, when I was so needed at home. With Wun Lung hurt and mother so busy, I ought to have a dozen pairs of hands. Of course, I’m glad he’s well, dear old fellow, but I shouldn’t have gone this morning if somebody hadn’t told Antonio wrong. I met a stranger on the trail, too, and Zulu scared his horse, and it stumbled in a gopher hole or something and is lamed for ever so long. He’ll likely come to Sobrante, if he can get there, but he looked ill if Pedro didn’t, and the sun nearly overcame him. Can’t I help you hold that board?”
John accepted her offer of help less because he needed it than because he always liked to have her near him.
“So ’twas Antonio sent you, eh? H-m-m!”
“He didn’t send me. Course not. He just said somebody said Pedro was dying.”
The carpenter laughed, but his mirth was not pleasant.
“Queer how stories get mixed, even in this lonesome place. There; you needn’t hold that. Your little hands aren’t so very strong, helpful as they may be. This isn’t any great of a job; it ’twould only stay, once ’twas finished!”
“Then I’ll go. Maybe I’d better send up one of the boys to help you. Shall I? Who do you want?”
Upon the point of declining, the carpenter changed his mind.
“Yes, you may. I wish you would. Send Antonio.”
“Send–Antonio! Why, I should as soon think of ‘sending’ that stranger I told you about. You’re teasing me, for you know well that Antonio is the only one who ever ‘sends’ Antonio. Even my mother, who has a right to ‘send’ everybody on the ranch whither she will, never orders the manager. Well, good-by. You shall have a nice dinner out of the house-kitchen to pay for your hard climb.”