“Oh, thank God!” moaned Joe, but in another moment, “Poor old Salt Peter! They must have killed him when he wouldn't stop. Sing—” but Hop Sing had vanished, leaving only his white apron across the wash bench.
As the stage thundered around the turn at the end of the main street, the wounded horse threw up his head, coughed bloody spume over the pointers (the second pair), and fell. Men were already scrambling onto their horses, and loping in from all directions. Rand cut out a buckskin leader, mounted, and dashed frantically back up the road followed by a dozen horsemen.
“Rand, who was it?”
“I don't know, exactly. Thought I saw Digger Dan—” They were over the hill, and Jo heard no more.
Hop Sing did not turn up for supper, but his tall substitute did fairly well, and Jo did not worry. Some time after dark, a weary Rand appeared.
“Well, Miss Jo, we got Digger Dan. At least we thought it was, but he won't say a word except that he wants to see you. I've come to escort you over to the jail. Will you trust yourself to me that far?”
“That far, yes,” archly, “'tis but a short space.” Not for worlds would she have him guess her anxiety of the afternoon.
“I wish that 'twere for always.”
“What can Digger Dan want of me,” she evaded, thankful for the darkness which hid her blushes. “Rand, hear the wolves howling!”
“They are only coyotes, dear—Miss Joe, and afraid to venture into town except to the chicken roosts.”