"The one that came in to-night?" Betty asked, taking up a fresh sack to receive some pots and blankets.
"Yes."
"And we are to bolt with him?" she went on in a peculiar manner.
Her uncle paused in the act of putting firearms and ammunition into the sack. Her tone checked his enthusiasm. Then he laughed.
"We're not 'bolting' Betty, we're escaping so that Dave may get the news. His fortune depends on our success. Remember our communications are cut."
But his arguments fell upon deaf ears. Betty smiled and shook her brown head.
"We're bolting, uncle. Listen. There's no need for us to go. In fact, we can't go. Think for a moment. Things depend on the speed with which Dave learns of the trouble. We should make two more in the buckboard of which the horses are already tired. Mason, by himself, will travel light. Besides, a girl is a deterrent when it comes to—fighting. No, wait." She held up a warning finger as he was about to interrupt. "Then there are the sick here. We cannot leave them. They—are our duty. Besides, Dave's interests would be ill served if we left the fever to continue its ravages unchecked."
In her last remark Betty displayed her woman's practical instinct. Perhaps she was not fully aware of her real motive. Perhaps she conscientiously believed that it was their duty that claimed her. Nevertheless her thought was for the man she loved, and it guided her every word and action; it inspired her. The threat of imprisonment up here did not frighten her, did not even enter into her considerations at all. Dave—her every nerve vibrated with desire to help him, to save him.
Chepstow suddenly reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. His enthusiasm had passed, and, for the moment, the churchman in him was uppermost again.
"You're right, Betty," he said with decision. "We stay here."