"But I was impudent," she told herself as her fierce anger abated somewhat. "I needn't have said anything about his hat. Maybe then he wouldn't have struck me at all. Perhaps if I had said I was sorry and had cleaned up his hat again, he would have waved good-by to me. Perhaps—just perhaps he might have kissed me as Carrie's father does. But I suppose it would be too soon to expect kisses."
"Tabitha, have you gone to bed?" It was Aunt Maria's voice nervous and shaking.
"Not yet. What's the matter?" she asked.
"I thought maybe you would just as soon sleep in Tom's room tonight. There's a band of gypsies camping a little way up the road, and I don't like the idea of us two women folks being left alone all night. I tried to get Max to stay until morning, but he said he couldn't make connections if he did. I don't suppose there is anything to be afraid of, but this is our first night without a man in the house, and I am as nervous as a witch." This was a long speech for Aunt Maria, but she had a bad attack of the fidgets, and found relief in words.
Tabitha had forgotten that her father's departure would mean she and Aunt Maria must stay alone on the desert, for Tom had gone away to college ten days before; and now at her aunt's words she felt a little tremor of fear pass over her. She had never quite outgrown the feeling of oppression these black nights on the desert gave her, for the hills shut out the lights of town, and Carson's house was the only tenanted one near them. Somewhere she had heard that a man had died in the other little cottage in their neighborhood which had stood vacant ever since their arrival at Silver Bow, and it was even hinted that his ghost had come back to haunt it. True, she had never seen anything to warrant her believing these stories, but she stood in awful dread of that house beyond them; so she was only too glad for her aunt's suggestion that she sleep in Tom's bed.
Trying to put these things out of her mind and to think of more cheerful subjects, she gathered up her belongings, and crept into the little box-like room, hardly big enough to turn around in, saying in reassuring tones to Aunt Maria,
"Of course there is nothing to be afraid of. Those campers aren't gypsies, but a lot of prospectors, and I think they moved on after they had cooked supper. At least, I saw them going towards town, horses and all. I reckon they had to lay in some more supplies and so camped near the stores to get an early start in the morning."
"Well, I wish there was a man in the house. I never did like to stay alone at night, and this desert is the blackest place I ever got into. I don't believe I shall ever get used to it."
"You aren't alone. I'm here, and I'm past twelve. There isn't anything to hurt us, and we haven't anything that robbers would want if they should come along. Thieves would know better than to visit a desert town, Aunt Maria."
Nevertheless, the woman's nervous terror found an echo in Tabitha's heart, and instead of undressing, she exchanged her soiled dress for a fresh one, removed her shoes, and climbed into bed with her clothes on. For a long time she lay tossing on the unfamiliar couch, listening to the night sounds without, and the hideous brays of the wandering burros; but at last she fell into an uneasy slumber, and dreamed that she had gone away to boarding school, but instead of having Carrie for a playmate, her companions were two blazing shoes who kept offering her molasses taffy out of her father's hat. She awoke with a start, trembling in every limb, and frightened at her strange surroundings. Then she remembered how she came to be there, and lay down again on her pillow; but she could not sleep.