“I reckon you'd better ride the horse you had,” he said to Bo.
“Whatever you say. But I hope you let me ride them all, by and by.”
“Sure. I've a mustang out there you'll like. But he pitches a little,” he rejoined, and turned away toward the park. The hound looked after him and then at Helen.
“Come, Pedro. Stay with me,” called Helen.
Dale, hearing her, motioned the hound back. Obediently Pedro trotted to her, still shy and soberly watchful, as if not sure of her intentions, but with something of friendliness about him now. Helen found a soft, restful seat in the sun facing the park, and there composed herself for what she felt would be slow, sweet, idle hours. Pedro curled down beside her. The tall form of Dale stalked across the park, out toward the straggling horses. Again she saw a deer grazing among them. How erect and motionless it stood watching Dale! Presently it bounded away toward the edge of the forest. Some of the horses whistled and ran, kicking heels high in the air. The shrill whistles rang clear in the stillness.
“Gee! Look at them go!” exclaimed Bo, gleefully, coming up to where Helen sat. Bo threw herself down upon the fragrant pine-needles and stretched herself languorously, like a lazy kitten. There was something feline in her lithe, graceful outline. She lay flat and looked up through the pines.
“Wouldn't it be great, now,” she murmured, dreamily, half to herself, “if that Las Vegas cowboy would happen somehow to come, and then an earthquake would shut us up here in this Paradise valley so we'd never get out?”
“Bo! What would mother say to such talk as that?” gasped Helen.
“But, Nell, wouldn't it be great?”
“It would be terrible.”