"You may keep them also. We'd like you to have them—wouldn't we, daddy?"
"Yes, yes," said Kauffman. "There is nothing there of much value, but such as they are they are yours."
"I shall store everything," the young fellow declared, firmly, "in the hope that some day you will come back."
"That will never be! My life here is ended," she asserted.
"You will not always feel as you do now," he urged. "All the people of the county are not of Watson's stripe."
"That is true," she said. "I shall try not to be unjust, but I see now that in seeking seclusion in that lonely cañon we thrust ourselves among the most lawless citizens of the state, and cut ourselves off from the very people we should have known. However, I have had enough of solitude. My mind has changed. This week's experience has swept away the fog in my brain. I feel like one suddenly awakened. I see my folly and I shall go back to my people—to the city."
The ranger, recognizing something inflexible in this, made no further appeal.
There was nothing at the tank but a small, brown cottage in which the wife of the Mexican section boss lived, and to her Hanscom committed his charges and turned to the care of his almost exhausted team. The train was late, the guard at the tank said, and in consequence the ranger was torn between an agony of impatience and a dread of parting.
It was probable that some of the Kitsongs were in the raiding party, and if they were hurt the Kauffmans were not safe till the state line was passed. It would be easy to head them off by a wire. It was a hideous coil to throw about a young girl seeking relief from some unusual sorrow, and though he longed even more deeply to keep her under his protection, he made no objection to her going.
Returning to the section-house, he shared with her the simple meal which the reticent, smiling little Mexican woman had prepared, and did his best to cheer Kauffman with a belief in the early arrival of the train.