The thing was a paper. One corner of a sheet stuck up from the crack in which it lay and was waved gently by the rising dawn breeze. She drew it out and perceived it was fastened to other sheets that were folded, all damp from the rain though not soaked because the cranny had admitted little moisture. It was the last sheet which had come partly unfolded, apparently as it fell, so was left in sight or she would never have noticed the white flutter. This last sheet was blank, but the others, neatly folded though wrinkled, were covered with writing she saw on spreading them open. However, she could not read the pages; the matter was typewritten, but it was not English. Some foreign language, maybe.
If Mary could not read the document, she could at least logically deduce how it had happened to be in its present resting-place. The paper was here because the wrecked automobile was here, so when Ed Sorenson was pitched out the folded sheets of paper must have been 192 propelled from his pocket by the same force and at the same instant. It hit a rock after flying through the air and slid down into the crack.
Perhaps it was only a business document; it looked like one. Again perhaps it told something about his crooked private affairs––about his schemes for ruining girls, possibly. Very likely, indeed. That seemed to be about all he engaged himself at. When she found some one who could read it, she would know for certain. She would just take it along with her and say nothing about her find until she could have somebody who understood the writing read it over for her.
In places the typing had stained from dampness, but not seriously. She could dry out the pages over the kitchen stove at home. So folding the sheets again, she doubled the document, tied it in her handkerchief and placed it inside her waist, where it could not be lost. Perhaps there were other papers. But a further search disclosed none, whereupon as her father was shouting to her from the cabin to come she retraced her steps.
When they had drunk their coffee and eaten some of Sorenson’s food, making their meal before the door, they carried the unconscious man out to the wagon, bearing him in the blanket on which he lay. Other blankets they spread over him. Johnson also placed at the prostrate figure’s feet the rest of the eatables in the cabin.
“No need to leave this stuff to the pack-rats,” said he. “We’ll just consider it a little pay towards fetching him out.”
“He ought to be willing to pay you a whole lot more when he learns the trouble you’ve been to.”
“I wouldn’t touch his money if he offered me a thousand dollars; I’d throw it back in his face. I’m not doing this for pay, or friendship, or charity; I’m doing 193 it to help Janet Hosmer and because Weir asked me. If the Sorensons had all the money on earth, they couldn’t give me a penny as between man and man. If they owed it to me, that would be another matter. They’d pay it if I had to stick a gun down their throats to make them come across.”
“We don’t need any of their money, I guess,” Mary said.
“Nope. We’re poor but we’re straight. So we’re better off than they are––richer, if we just look at it that way.”