“Thanks.” Betty’s little smile, with its hint of sarcasm, suggested that there was not the least need of the revolver; if she wore it, the only reason was to humor his vanity and let him feel that he was protecting her.
She crossed the valley and climbed the ridge. From the farther side of it she looked down upon a log cabin of two rooms, a small stable, and a corral. They nestled in a draw at her feet, so close that a man could have thrown a stone almost to the fence. The hillside was rough with stones. With Justin’s mishap in mind, she felt her way down carefully.
Smoke poured out of the chimney and polluted the pure light air. No need of seeing the fire inside to know that the wood was resinous fir.
Betty knocked on the door.
It opened. Black stood on the threshold looking down at her in ludicrous amazement. She had taken off her coat and was carrying it. Against a background of white she bloomed vivid as a poinsettia in her old-rose sweater and jaunty tam. The cold crisp air had whipped the scarlet into her lips, the pink into her cheeks.
“What in—Mexico!” he exclaimed.
“How’s Mr. Hollister?”
“A mighty sick man. Howcome you here, miss?”
The sound of a querulous voice came from within. “Tell you I don’t want the stuff. How many times I got to say it?”
“I’ve come to nurse him. Billy brought us word. Father wasn’t home—nor Lon. So Mr. Merrick brought me.”