His brother took charge of the situation. “Go in to Groton’s with Vicky and get her a good dinner. I’ll see what supplies I can pick up and go down to the wagon with them.”
In front of the Delta saloon Scot met a Washoe Indian. He was carrying a half a sack of wild onions he had brought to town to trade. McClintock did business with him on the spot. At Lyman Jones’s store the faro dealer bought some rice and coffee. He also induced the merchant to let him have the last five pounds of flour he had in stock. With these supplies he tramped to the edge of town to the place where the Dodsons had moved their camp.
He ploughed through heavy sand, up a steep slope of shale and loose rubble, to a narrow flat where the prairie schooner stood. Mollie Dodson must have heard him coming, for as he reached the wagon she called from within:
“Did you find Rob, Vicky?”
Perhaps the firmness of his tread told her at once of her mistake. She leaned out of the open flap and caught sight of Scot. Into her white face the colour beat in waves. Startled eyes held to his with a surprised question in them.
“I—I was looking for Vicky,” she said.
“Yes. I met Vicky.” His white teeth flashed in a smile that sought to win her confidence. “That young lady has a lot of sense. She wanted to know why the trustees of the Virginia Dodson Fund were not attending to business. So I’m here.”
“Oh! Vicky oughtn’t to have done that.” Another surge of colour, born of shame, swept into the cheeks.
For the first time Scot realized how very pretty she was. He found her diffidence charming, for he lived in a world where the women he knew could not afford to be shy.
“Vicky did just right,” he protested while he was opening his sack. “Our baby must be well fed. It’s my business to see to that, and I’m going to do it from now.”