“Your mother? Where?”
“She’s at the cottonwoods. We live there.”
Adam could not see her plainly. The fire had burned down. He threw on more greasewood and some sage, that flared up with sparkling smoke. Then he drew the girl to the light. What a thin arm she had! And in the small face and staring eyes he read more than the fear that seemed now losing its intensity. Starvation! No man so quick as Adam to see that!
“You live there? Then he lied about the water?” asked Adam.
“Oh yes—he lied.”
“Who are these men?”
“I don’t know. They camped at the water. I—I was out—gathering firewood. One of them—the one you hit—grabbed me—carried me off. He put his hand—on my mouth. Then the other man came—with the burros.... My mother’s sick. She didn’t know what happened. She’ll be terribly frightened.... Oh, please take me—home!”
“Indeed I will,” replied Adam, heartily. “Don’t worry any more. Come now. Walk right behind me.”
Adam led the way out of camp without another glance at the two men, one of whom was groaning. The girl kept close at Adam’s heels. Away from the circle of camp-fire glow, he could see the gray aisles of clean sand between the clumps of greasewood, and he wound in and out between these until he found the trail. Suddenly he remembered the girl had no shoes.
“You’ll stick your feet full of cactus,” he said. “You should have on your shoes.”