For a while Donald stood very still. He was really alone, then—alone, miles from the home ranch, and not knowing the way back again! This was his first thought. The next was of Sandy.
All that Thornton had hinted flashed into his mind. Sandy was not to be trusted, Thornton had told his father. If they placed any dependence on the young Scotchman they would some time regret it.
Had Sandy deceived him?
What possible object could he have, Donald asked himself, in so quietly departing with the sheep and leaving him behind?
At least he had left the tent.
Had he taken the food and rifles with him?
With beating heart Donald scrambled for his match-box and made a light.
No, there was the knapsack of provisions, the saucepan, the coffee-pot! In the corner, too, stood his own rifle. But Sandy's rifle was missing.
Donald reflected a moment.
Sandy must be coming back. Ah, that was it! But where had he gone? Why should he rise up in the middle of the night, take the flock and dogs, and steal off in this noiseless fashion? The boy could not solve the enigma.