They fell to babbling foolishly without any one's caring how foolishly; they laughed for no reason, and asked the same questions over again without heeding the answers. Jack sprang to unpack and unsaddle their horses. When they were finally hobbled and turned out, he came back to Mary. She was setting out the grub-box and making tea. Davy went away to cut poles for their two little tents.
"You do wish to be friends?" Jack said pleadingly; "after what you said!"
Mary had recovered her self-possession. "I couldn't let you go alone," she parried. "That is such a foolish thing to do. I couldn't have slept or sat still for thinking of it. Other things are not changed at all."
"But you came!" murmured Jack a little triumphantly, and moving closer to her.
She drew away. "You shouldn't say that," she murmured stiffly. "It wasn't easy for me to come. And it may cost me dear."
Jack wondered like a man why she was offended. "I know," he said, "and I'm not going to let you come. But I'm glad you wanted to."
This made matters worse. "I didn't want to," she threw back at him sharply. "I came because I was the only one who could help you. I know the Indians; they like me; they're a little afraid of me. And you can't make us go back. We have our own outfit. If you won't let us ride with you, we'll follow after!"
Jack stared, perplexed and wondering at her hurt tones. Certainly girls were beyond his comprehension. Though so different in other respects, it seemed they were alike in this: their perfect inconsistency. He tried another tack.
"Did your father let you come?"
"No," she said unwillingly. "He was very angry with you."