“Poor little Carol,” he thought as he started driving toward the mountains, “she probably has tried to walk home, but her little legs will tire out long before she gets there, and no one living along the way except the Washoe Indians.” Mr. Clayburn hastened the pace of his horse as he thought of this. Meanwhile Carol, on leaving the home of the banker, had slipped unobserved through side-streets until she came to a highway on the outskirts, which she believed led in the direction of her log-cabin home.
She had been to Genoa but once before, and that was when she was six years of age, and though she knew that she must follow one of the side-roads toward the mountains, she was not sure which one to take.
On and on she trudged. The houses were very far apart now, and at last there were none at all. The child looked very small indeed as she crossed the desert-like stretch of sandy waste where only sagebrush and a few twisted trees were growing.
At last she reached a crossing, and to her joy, a sign-post informed her that Woodford’s was but six miles away over in the mountains. At least it was a comfort to know that she was going in the right direction. The pine trees grew bigger and denser and the road began to ascend.
The child’s feet were very tired, and, at last, she was so weary that she felt that she just could not take another step, and so she sank down on a boulder to rest. How silent it was, save for the moaning of the gentle breezes in the pines. The only living thing that she saw was a great wide-winged vulture that was swinging around overhead in circles. Never in her life had the child felt so alone in the world, but she was not afraid. The children of Pine Tree Martin had never learned fear.
“I must hurry on,” she thought, as she again arose and trudged bravely up the rough mountain road. With feet that would lag, however eager she might be to go on, she slowly climbed, but, with five miles still ahead, the small girl realized that she could walk no farther. Sinking to the ground, she curled up under a pine tree and began to sob softly.
Suddenly she sat up alert, listening. She had heard the pounding of a horse’s feet around the curve that she had just passed. Some one was coming!
She hid behind the trunk of a tree that she might see without being seen, and then watched and waited. Soon a horse and rider appeared. After one glance the small girl, with a glad cry, leaped out into the road. It was Tom Piggins riding on a big dappled work-horse. He had been to Genoa on an errand for his father, and was returning to the Valley Ranch. Never before had Carol been so glad to see any one.
Running out into the road, she waved and shouted, “Tom! Tom! Please give me a ride!”
“Why, Carry Martin, what you doin’ here?” For once the small girl did not resent being called by that much-hated name. The long, lank boy continued: “Ken was over to our place last night, and he was sayin’ as how you’d been adopted by a rich banker. He said he was sort of glad of it, you being so selfish and hard to live with, but Dixie, she’s been sniffling ’round ever since you left, and the little kid keeps askin’, ‘Where’s Carol? Jimmy wants Carol.’”