“Peek in the kitchen and see what Barney’s up to now,” prompted Slivers, nudging Adams as he spoke.
“Oh, he’ll be back directly,” said Adams.
“Here’s somebody comin’ now,” added Catherwood, presently. “Maybe it’s—”
“Sally,” muttered Slivers, who meditated proposing for the hand of the buxom Miss Wooster.
She came toward them almost fiercely. Her face was white. She too had detected the change come upon the tiny Indian captive. All night she had accused herself of neglect and heartlessness.
“Where’s Barney? Where’s the baby?” she demanded.
“Barney’s maybe striking off for Thimbleberry Cove,” answered Slivers, smilingly. “He was running a bluff on taking the kid to its mother.”
“But Tuttle told me the mother’s up at Red Shirt Canyon,” said the girl.
“Of course,” agreed Slivers, uneasily. “We—told him about the Cove to test his sand.”
Sally gazed at him wildly. “Then—it must have been a man—Barney!—I saw—on the desert!” she cried, disjointedly. “They’ll die! Oh no, he wouldn’t—” She ran outside to scan the fearful expanse of alkali, with its gathering blizzard of dust.