“Better not count too much on Tatateecha,” warned Loseis. “He is as reliable as water.”
“I know,” said Conacher. “But there’s no harm in figuring. . . . Say he makes the warehouse in eight more days. If Gruber started back instantly—and of course he would on getting my letter; he could make the return journey in five days, or even four if he had plenty of horses. In twelve days then, we may begin to look for relief. After all twelve days is not so much. . . .”
“But Gault will be counting those twelve days, too,” said Loseis in a low tone. “He will not let them pass without acting.”
Seeing how the Indian girl’s head was hanging down, and her face twitching, Loseis said kindly: “Mary-Lou, why don’t you take a horse, and ride to the Slavi village? You can stay with the other Marys. You would be quite safe there. And you can’t do us any good by staying here.”
Mary-Lou, without looking up, slowly shook her head. “I not like live in tepee,” she murmured. “Please, I want stay with you.”
Loseis gave her a hug. “Surely!” she said. “But I hate to see you so broken up.”
“I all right,” said Mary-Lou in a strangled voice. She hastened into the house.
Conacher and Loseis came together. They walked in the grass with linked arms.
“Sweetheart,” murmured Conacher; “you hide it well, but you are suffering too!”
“You mustn’t feel sorry for me,” said Loseis, “or I’ll feel sorry for myself then. . . . It’s only not knowing what to expect! When I see what I have to do, I’ll be all right.”