“Serves me damn right, bein’ so slow with my gun,” he said. “I suppose the guy got away?”
“Oh, yes, he got away!” muttered Scott, as they helped Miller to bed. “That’s the kind of luck we’re playing in just now around here.”
Breakfast next morning was not a particularly cheerful meal. Adams was still in bed, and Williams was feverish and cross. Miller seemed little the worse for his accident, but he was blue; he had been particularly attached to the dog and felt its death more than his own misadventure.
“Blankets, canned goods, saddles—everything they could grab,” muttered Williams, resentfully. “Nice condition to be in with a revolution looming.”
“Not looming, loomed,” said O’Grady, cheerfully.
“Wish I could get hold of an Omaha Bee,” murmured Johnson. “I never somehow feel like I had a grip on a situation till I’ve seen my home paper.”
“I think I’ll ride over to Casa Grande this morning and get the doctor,” said Hard. “That leg of Jimmy’s needs advice.”
“I’ll go with you.” Scott looked at Polly. “Want to go?” he said; then as she hesitated, he looked at her penitently, smiling as Scott did not often smile, and whispered: “Please do!”
“How mean of him! He knows I’m dying to. How’s anybody going to stay mad when they want to do things?” said the girl to herself.
“It’s too far for her,” objected Mrs. Van.