The sun was slanting near the rough hills beyond the river when they started back to Comanche.
“You’ve seen the best of the reservation,” explained Smith, “and they ain’t no earthly use in seein’ the worst of it.”
They were well along on the way, passing through a rough and outcast stretch of country, where upheaved ledges stood on edge, and great blocks of stone poised menacingly on the brows of shattered cliffs, when Smith, 73 who had been looking sharply ahead, pulled in suddenly and turned to Agnes with apologetic questioning in his eyes. It seemed to her that he had something on his mind which he was afraid to put into words.
“What is it, Mr. Smith?” she asked.
“I was just goin’ to say, would you mind goin’ inside and lettin’ that doctor man take your place for a while?”
Smith doubtless had his reason, she thought, although it hurt her pride that he should withhold his confidence. But she yielded her place without further questioning, with a great amount of blushing over the stocking which a protruding screwhead was responsible for her showing to Dr. Slavens as he assisted her to the ground.
The sudden stop, the excitement incident to changing places, threw the women within the coach into a cackle.
“Is it robbers?” demanded Mrs. Reed, getting hold of June’s hand and clinging to it protectingly as she put her head out and peered up at Smith, who was sitting there stolidly, his eyes on the winding trail ahead, his foot on the brake.
“No, ma’am,” answered Smith, not looking in her direction at all.
“What is it, then?” quavered Mrs. Mann from the other side of the stage.