"Why, it can't be—Hetty, she wouldn't—say, it must be a joke—what does it mean?"
Bob lifted his shoulders in a shrug he had picked up from the Mexicans. It stung Lafe.
"Where has she gone? Do you know anything about this?"
"Not me. She's been mighty queer lately, Lafe. Where could she go?"
We could only look at one another while we mentally debated possibilities. Hetty had no kith or kin in this region, and the nearest point was Badger. She could not have gone there, else we should have passed her on the road.
"Mary Lou's!" Bob exclaimed. "I'll swear that's where she's hit for."
Johnson remained beside the table a moment, deep in thought. Then he smote his hands together and an expression of relief lighted his face.
"I'll go get her," he told us.
We were for accompanying him to the Hardins' place, but had not gone more than a few hundred yards when he pulled up and requested that we go back. This matter was between him and Hetty—he said it with some hesitation—and it were better that he go alone. So we turned back, only to halt again.
"He might need some help," was Bob's excuse. "Supposing she's sick. What do you say if we trail him?"