“So you’d leave her out all night to the dew and the coyotes and the hoss thieves, would you,” interrupted Jim, with a fine sarcasm, “jest because there ain’t no growed-up woman at the Three Bars? What d’ye think Williston’s little gal’d care for style? She ain’t afraid o’ us ol’ grizzled fellers. I hope to the Lord there won’t never be no growed-up woman at the Three Bars,—yep, that’s what I hope. I think that mouse-haired gal reporter’d be just tumble fussy, and I think she’s a goin’ to marry a down Easterner chap, anyway.”
“Just pick up that fellow, will you, boys, and strap him to his horse, and we’ll take him along,” said Langford. “I don’t believe he’s dead.”
“What fellow?” asked the Scribe, peering casually about.
Langford had unconsciously ridden forward a bit to meet the boys as they had clattered up shamefacedly. Now he turned.
“Why, that fellow over there. I knocked him out.”
He rode back slowly. There was no man there, nor the trace of a man. They stared at each other a moment, silently. Then Langford spoke.
“No, I am not going to leave Williston’s little girl out in the dew,” he said, with an inscrutable smile. “While some of you ride in to get some one to see about that body out there and bring out the doctor, I’ll take her over to White’s for to-night, anyway. Mrs. White will care for her. Then perhaps we will send for the ‘gal reporter,’ Jim.”
[CHAPTER XI—“YOU ARE—THE BOSS”]
She held out her left hand with a sad little smile. “It is good of you to come so soon,” she said, simply.
She had begged so earnestly to sit up that Mrs. White had improvised an invalid’s chair out of a huge old rocker and a cracker box. It did very well. Then she had partially clothed the girl in a skimpy wrapper of the sort Langford abominated, throwing a man’s silk handkerchief where the wrapper failed to meet, and around the injured arm. Mrs. White had then recalled her husband from the stables where he was on the point of mounting to join the relief party that was to set off in search of Williston at ten o’clock. The starting point unanimously agreed upon was to be the pitiful remnants of Williston’s home. Men shook their heads dubiously whenever the question of a possible leading trail was broached. The soil was hard and dry from an almost rainless July and August. The fugitives might strike across country anywhere with meagre chances of their trail being traced by any.