With the following dawn Buck’s improvement was wonderful, and Joan awoke from a deep, night-long slumber, refreshed and hopeful. An overhauling of their supplies showed them sufficient food, used sparingly, to last a week. And with this knowledge Buck outlined their plans to the girl, who hung upon his every word.
“We can’t quit yet,” he said, when they had broken their fast.
The girl waited, watching his dark contemplative eyes as they looked across the water at the diminished hill.
“Nope,” he went on. “We owe him more’n that. We must chase around, an’—find him. We must——”
“Yes,” Joan broke in, her eyes full of eager acquiescence. “We must not leave him—to—to—the coyotes.” She shuddered.
“No. Guess I’ll git the horses.”
“You? Oh, Buck—let me. I am well and strong. It is my turn to do something now. Your work is surely finished.”
Her pleading eyes smiled up into his, but the man shook his head with that decision she had come to recognize and obey almost without question.
“Not on your life, little gal,” he said, in his kindly, resolute fashion, and Joan was left to take her woman’s place in their scheme of things.