The girl looked at him gravely. “Do you think we ought to go back?”
“Back? No, I don’t. Those folks are waiting for us at Soria’s and I want to get Tom started for them as soon as I can.”
“I wonder if those men will make any trouble at Soria’s?”
“I don’t believe so. If it was Angel Gonzales, he’s heading for your gentleman friend’s place and he’ll be in a hurry.”
“Why do you go on calling him my gentleman friend?”
“Well, you think he’s some kind of a guy, don’t you?” demanded Scott, with a grin. “Pretty manners, soft voice, nice long eyelashes—all that kind of thing?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Polly, stoutly. “I like Juan Pachuca and I believe he’s been led away by bad company. I believe what he told me about that treasure, too. I only wish I’d made him tell me the name of the border town where it was.”
“Women are queer,” remarked Scott, with more truth than originality. “Well, Polly Street, I think I’ll gather the wood for your fire.”
Together they gathered the loose twigs and branches—they were not many, but eked out with pine cones would make a fire for a few hours, and Scott made Polly’s bed close by it. He put his rubber poncho on the ground and made the girl wrap herself in both blankets.
“I’ve got a heavy sweater under my coat,” he said, “and I’ll have to keep moving a good deal to look after the horses and keep the fire going.” And he refused to take a blanket, much to Polly’s dismay. “Curl up and be comfortable, girlie, and relax. It don’t matter if you don’t sleep if you can relax.”