“Of course not, dear girl,” said Garry gravely, as he took her pony’s bridle and led it gently from the road and back up the graveled drive that led to the Hardin ranch house. “Do you suppose for a minute that if I had known you were coming out here I wouldn’t have been cooling my heels at the station an hour ahead of time?”
“Of course, I supposed that,” admitted Dorothy, turning her eyes away from the look in Garry’s. “But I can’t understand why my telegram didn’t reach you.”
“I got one telegram from you,” said Garry. He looked around as though to make sure that no one was near them and said in an instinctively lowered tone: “You said something about overhearing some plot or other in which the conspirators hoped to land me one with a good large brick. Such plots as those are no novelty in my young life,” he added grimly. “But I appreciate the warning, coming from a little brick.”
“But, Garry,” Dorothy’s voice was tremulous and in her eyes was a haunting fear, “there is one thing I want to ask you. I’ve been hoping you would tell, because I didn’t want to ask you. I was afraid to ask you. Garry, have you seen Joe?”
Garry’s face darkened and he pulled his horse to a standstill before the ranch house. Dorothy drew in her rein also and sat tensely watching him.
“I have seen Joe—yes,” replied Garry slowly, showing a sudden burst of emotion. “And I wish to heaven I could let the story rest there!”
Dorothy grasped his arm wildly, imploring him.
“What do you mean, Garry? Tell me what do you mean! Oh, don’t you see I’ve got to know?”
“There is so little I can tell you, dear girl,” said Garry gravely. “I saw him. He came to me, half-starved and wild-eyed with an incoherent story about breaking away from a man who was trying to take him off into the mountains——”
“Larrimer!” gasped Dorothy, white-faced.