CHAPTER XVI
DANGER AND DIGNITY
“Did you carry her that way all the way home?”
Frances asked the question abruptly, like one throwing down some troublesome and heavy thing that he has labored gallantly to conceal. It was the first word that she had spoken since they had taken refuge from their close-pressing pursuers in the dugout that some old-time homesteader had been driven away from by Chadron’s cowboys.
Macdonald was keeping his horse back from the door with the barrel of his rifle, while he peered out cautiously again, perplexed to understand the reason why Dalton had not led his men against them in a charge.
“Not all the way, Frances. She rode behind me till she got so cold and sleepy I was afraid she’d fall off.”
“Yes, I’ll bet she put on half of it!” she said, spitefully. “She looked strong enough when you put her down there at the gate.”
This unexpected little outburst of jealousy was pleasant to his ears. Above the trouble of that morning, and of the future which was charged with it to the blackness of complete obscuration, her warrant of affection was like a lifting sunbeam of hope.
“I can’t figure out what Dalton and that gang 216 mean by this,” said he, the present danger again pressing ahead of the present joy.
“I saw a man dodge behind that big rock across there a minute ago,” she said.
“You keep back away from that door—don’t lean over out of that corner!” he admonished, almost harshly. “If you get where you can see, you can be seen. Don’t forget that.”