“That’s all right, stranger,” she said cheerily, starting the pony.
“Going home now?” Brainard asked.
“Yes!”
This childish figure, astride the tired pony, riding back into the lonely mountains, seemed to him extremely pathetic.
“Good-by!” he called after her. “Hope we shall meet again some day!”
“Reckon we might, stranger!” came back to him in the soft voice.
“Perhaps in New York?”
“Ye-as—or in Mexico.”
Then the pony’s feet padded rapidly off into the darkness, and the girl was gone.
“Who is she—do you know?” he asked the man.