“She—she has to be gently wheeled through life—everybody looking out for her!” hooted Pemrose—just as if she had not thought the same thing herself. “Why! she’d make many a boy look foolish. She’s a—Girl. A Camp Fire Girl!”
She said it again. He said it, too, when, an hour—and more—later, a hard climb accomplished, riders standing upright, at times, forcing the stirrups back, to help struggling horses, the top of Little Sister was gained ... and an empty camp.
But what was this fluttering in the mountain wind, an indigo butterfly—a bit of blue rag.
“It looks—oh! it looks as if it might have belonged to Una’s riding habit.” The back of Pemrose’s hand struck her lips. “She—she had riding breeches on, that color; I helped her into them when the fire broke out—first thing handy!”
For a moment she felt as did Jacob of old when he, seeing his son’s rich coat, thought a beast had devoured him—to what evil thing might this fragment of blue cloth, finer than that of a girl’s sisters, testify?
“Perhaps she bit it out, gnawed it—cut it out—left it as a clue, a clue to searchers.” Treff was cornering the fragment.
“Oh-h! do you think she could have done that?”
“If she had presence of mind to send out the message—she could.”
The boy-aviator’s face wore a look now as if the spot on which he stood, might be holy ground.
The next moment he knew it was.