Tommie grinned and ran out of the building. A moment later she heard his carefree whoop outside.
It happened that the boy was at that particular stage of life when his imagination revelled in make-believes. It was impossible for him to walk home sedately along the path. He told himself he was Kit Carson, and he hunted Indians as he dodged through the sage toward town.
The young scout’s heart gave a little jump of fear. For in the clump of junipers to which his stealthy steps had brought him two men lay stretched on the ground. One of them carried a rifle.
“I got it fixed,” the other was saying, almost in a murmur. “Sent him a note from that li’l tiger cat the schoolmarm for him to come an’ walk home with her. He’ll be along sure.”
Tommie recognized the man as Robert Dodson, the biggest figure in the camp’s life.
“You’ll protect me, Dodson? You’ll not go back on me?”
“Sure we’ll protect you—me’n Ralph both—to a finish.”
“If you don’t, by God, I’ll peach on you sure.”
“Sho! It’s plumb safe. You do the job, then light out. No danger a-tall.”
“All right. You c’n run along. I’ll git him sure as he passes along that path,” the man with the rifle promised.