The keen eyes of the lad had descried a horseman far away where the long slope rose to the horizen.
"I don't know," answered the girl. "Who is it, Patsy? A cowboy?"
"No," said Patsy, after waiting for a few minutes, "I think it's Perault."
"No, Patsy, that can't be. You know Perault went out with father last week."
"Yes, it is," insisted Patsy. "That's father's pony. That's Rat-tail, I know."
The girl stood up and gazed anxiously at the approaching rider.
"Surely it can't be Perault," she said to herself. "What can have happened?"
She unhitched her horse, rolled up her picket rope, and stood waiting with disturbed face. As the rider drew near she called, "Perault! Ho, Perault!"
"Hola!" exclaimed Perault, a wizened, tough-looking little Frenchman, pulling up his pony with a jerk "Bo jou, Mam'selle," he added, taking off his hat.
Perault's manner is reassuring, indeed quite gay.