“The sooner the better. But I—I don't understand,” said Helen, bewildered.
“It'll not be safe for you to ride on the mornin' stage,” returned Dale.
“Safe! Oh, what do you mean?” exclaimed Helen. Apprehensively she gazed at him and then back at Bo.
“Explainin' will take time. An' facts may change your mind. But if you can't trust me—”
“Trust you!” interposed Helen, blankly. “You mean to take us to Snowdrop?”
“I reckon we'd better go roundabout an' not hit Snowdrop,” he replied, shortly.
“Then to Pine—to my uncle—Al Auchincloss?
“Yes, I'm goin' to try hard.”
Helen caught her breath. She divined that some peril menaced her. She looked steadily, with all a woman's keenness, into this man's face. The moment was one of the fateful decisions she knew the West had in store for her. Her future and that of Bo's were now to be dependent upon her judgments. It was a hard moment and, though she shivered inwardly, she welcomed the initial and inevitable step. This man Dale, by his dress of buckskin, must be either scout or hunter. His size, his action, the tone of his voice had been reassuring. But Helen must decide from what she saw in his face whether or not to trust him. And that face was clear bronze, unlined, unshadowed, like a tranquil mask, clean-cut, strong-jawed, with eyes of wonderful transparent gray.
“Yes, I'll trust you,” she said. “Get in, and let us hurry. Then you can explain.”