“She do look good, crazy or no crazy,” remarked a swarthy-faced guide eying Phoebe with admiration.
The young girl seemed entirely unconscious of all the attention she was attracting. She looked straight ahead down the village street and never even glanced at the group of rough men gathered near the car.
“How do we know but she didn’t aid and abet Frenchy?” burst out the innkeeper. “How do we know but she didn’t help him start them fires on Razor Back? The two is always together, ’ceptin’ now when he’s a-hidin’ and she’s put on fine clothes to drive around with her rich friends.”
Phoebe turned her startled gaze on the man. Her lips parted.
“Don’t answer them,” whispered Billie, and with a grand flourish she swept the “Comet” around in a circle and turned his nose up the street.
“Do they accuse my father of setting Razor Back on fire?” asked Phoebe, tremulously.
“They tried to, but they couldn’t prove it,” answered Billie.
“My father loves the mountains,” protested poor Phoebe. “He loves the forests. He wouldn’t harm even one tree. How cruel these people are! Always they have hated us and we have never injured any of them. Oh, Billie, I feel that I must go to my father. I know he needs me.”
“You remember the doctor’s message,” answered Billie; “that it would be dangerous for you to leave camp. I am certain he knew what he was saying. Besides, didn’t you say the old herb woman was a friend? She would not have deceived you, would she?”
“No,” answered Phoebe, half smiling. “Once I pulled a thorn out of old Granny’s foot and washed and bound it, and she has been good to me ever since. The time she nursed me, she never left me day or night until I was well.”