The coffee-maker was a woman, and her pot was of several gallons’ capacity. She was standing with the cover of the boiler in one hand, a great spoon in the other, her back half bent over her beverage, in the position that the sound of Frances’ coming had struck her. She did not move out of that alert pose of suspicion until Frances drew rein within a few feet of her and gave her good-morning. When the poor harried creature saw that the visitor was a woman, her fright gave place to wonder.
Frances introduced herself without parley, and made inquiry for Macdonald.
“Why, bless your heart, you don’t aim to tell me you rode all the way from the post in the night by 248 yourself?” the simple, friendly creature said. “Well, Mr. Macdonald and most of the men they’ve left to take them scoun’rels sent in here by the cattlemen to murder all of us over to the jail at Meander.”
“How long have they been gone?”
“Why, not so very long. I reckon you must ’a’ missed meetin’ ’em by a hair.”
“I’ve got to catch up with them, right away! Is there anybody here that can guide me?”
“My son can, and he’ll be glad. He’s just went to sleep back there in the tent after guardin’ them fellers all night. I’ll roust him out.”
The pioneer woman came back almost at once, and pressed a cup of her coffee upon Frances. Frances took the tin vessel eagerly, for she was chilled from her long ride. Then she dismounted to rest her horse while her guide was getting ready, and warm her numb feet at the fire. She told the woman how the scent of her coffee had led her out of her groping like a beacon light on the hill.
“It’s about three miles from here down to the valley,” the woman said. “Coffee will carry on the mornin’ air that way.”
“Do you think your son—?”