“She will come if they have not taken her,” said Loseis confidently.
“What I am chiefly afraid of,” said Conacher, “is that she will pass right out with fright when we rise beside the trail.”
“When we were children we used to signal to each other by imitating the cry of the kill-dee,” said Loseis. “I will try that.”
When the stars came out they moved down beside the faint track worn in the buffalo grass. Conacher, pulling his blanket around his shoulders, squatted in the grass, smoking, and Loseis leaned her cheek against his shoulder.
“How strange!” she murmured.
“What is, sweetheart?”
“Us two little things out here in the middle of the bald-headed. I feel about an inch high under these stars.”
“Better than last night,” suggested Conacher.
“Rather! . . . Paul, if we ever have any children, I wonder if this will mean anything to them?”
Conacher was more moved than he cared to show. Loseis, scarcely more than a child herself, dreaming of having children of her own! “Surely!” he said with assumed lightness. “Think how they’ll be able to put it over the other kids! ‘My Ma and my Pa were chased by Injuns!’ ”