“Are they all mad?”
Rose suddenly caught sight of the little procession, frozen into a horrified immobility. She saw that an explanation was necessary, and hastily scrambled under the fence.
“We’re playing Indian,” she said. “Peter has rescued Ruth, the trapper’s daughter, from her Indian captor, and has been intercepted by the rest of the tribe ... it’s very exciting, and he does it so splendidly.”
“Look, look at their frocks, my poor dear Arabella,” gasped one of the heads in a sedan chair to another.
But now the rest of the children had perceived the interruption. A sudden silence fell upon them. All but Peter. Slipping off his horse, together with rescued Ruth, he laughed aloud.
“My, we’ll all catch it,” he said. “But it was worth it! It’s the most wonderful day we’ve ever known. I’m glad I rescued you, Ruth.”
“I’m glad, too,” Ruth answered. “You make a splendid backwoodsman. Must we stop?”
“I rather think so. Look at the ladies,” and he waved toward the group in the street.
Miraculously, it seemed, mothers, aunts, and elder sisters had appeared, and were sorting out the different boys and girls who belonged to them. Slender hands in silk mittens were lifted in horror to the skies, as the ruin of clothes and the dust of Indian conflict and cowboy life were more and more revealed. There was a storm of low-voiced protest, like the whisper of winds in a forest of firs, faces turned pale, and there was a sniffle here and there among the reprimands.
“We were just playing,” Rose reiterated.