“No, I–haven’t any father–I’ve never had a father!... I haven’t got anybody.... I haven’t even got a name that belongs to me!” Sherm’s voice grew shriller and shriller till it broke with a dry sob.
Chicken Little slipped her hand into his and the boy clung to it spasmodically, as if that slim, brown hand were all he had in the world to cling to. The tears were raining down Jane’s cheeks, but Sherm’s eyes were dry and burning. The team trotted along evenly. They turned mechanically into the stable yard when they reached the ranch. It was growing dusk.
Sherm helped her out, saying: “Will you please tell them, Chicken Little? I won’t come in just yet.”
She ran to the house and poured out her tale. Her 372father hurried to the stable. Sherm was not there. Jim Bart, who was milking in the corral near by, said he had saddled Caliph and gone off down the lane. Dr. Morton talked it over with Frank and they decided that Sherm had done the wisest thing possible in going for a gallop.
“He doesn’t mean to do anything rash or he wouldn’t have taken Ernest’s horse,” Frank declared.
But as hour after hour went by, the family grew more and more anxious. At eleven o’clock, Frank saddled Calico and tried to find him. He returned some time later in despair.
“You might as well try to look for a needle in a haystack. Poor lad, I have faith he will ride the worst of it off and Caliph is a pretty steady little beast now. He’ll bring him home.”
A few moments after his return, a messenger came from Captain Clarke, saying that he had been wakened by Caliph neighing at the gate and had gone out to find Sherm dazed and apparently completely exhausted. He had got him to bed where he was sleeping heavily. Captain Clarke was afraid they must be worried. He would care for him till morning, but he would be glad to have some inkling of what had happened so that he might know what to say to the boy when he waked.
Dr. Morton got out his medicine case and went back with the man.