Dolly Doodles has discovered some new sort of flowers somewhere and has wandered off to get them. She’s always doing that kind of thing,” Molly assured her hostess, who had gently answered:
“We’ll hope it’s only that. But she’d scarcely look for wild flowers at night, nor do anything to make us anxious by her delay. Our Dorothy is a very considerate girl and I wish – they would come.”
Linking her arm within Helena’s, the lady set her steps to suit the girl’s and resumed the pacing up and down the long piazza. The house was a one-storied building, stretching along the roadway to a size that was unusual for such a locality. It had been added to at different periods, as need arose; each addition being either a little lower or higher than its neighbor, according to the cash in hand, but invariably with the continuance of the comfortable piazza. This now afforded a long promenade, and all the people gathered at the wayside inn that night, were using it to walk off their impatience at the delay of “Tenderfoot Sorrel” to bring in his team.
Supper had been put back till it was spoiled, and having been telegraphed for beforehand, good Mrs. Roderick had wasted her best efforts upon it. But, at last, seeing Monty and Molly peering through the kitchen windows in a hungry sort of way, Mr. Ford ordered it served and all repaired to the dining room, feeling that the meal would be a farce, yet something with which to kill time.
However, the long ride in the keen air had given all a fine appetite and despite the landlady’s laments over the “dried-up stuff,” the table was nearly cleared of its food when they left it. Moreover, everyone felt better and brighter for the refreshment and so hopeful now for the speedy arrival of the laggards, that Mr. Ford suggested to the waitress:
“Just have a few things kept warm for the others. There’ll be four of them. If they aren’t here within a half-hour, now, I’ll go back in search of them. Something may have happened to the wagon and they left to come on a-foot.”
“Dear, did you ask the man you call Silent Pete if he passed them anywhere along the road?”
“Surely, I did that the first thing. He had neither passed nor seen them, he said.”
“Well, I’m going to interview him again. Come on, Miss Molly, to the stable with me,” cried Leslie.
“‘Molly,’ without the ‘Miss,’ please, and I’m ready enough! It seems as if I must be doing something, for everybody is looking so worried,” she answered, catching his outstretched hand and racing with him down the long porch and around to the stables in the rear.
Silent Pete had not gone to the loft where the workmen slept. He had wrapped himself in a blanket and, with another for a pillow, had settled himself in a corner of the loose box next the stalls where his team stood. He was so devoted to them that he couldn’t leave them alone in a strange stable, though from the snores which already came from him he didn’t seem a great protection to anything.
But Silent Pete was wily. He had heard the voices of the pair without the building, asking a groom to tell where Pete could be found, and had resented being disturbed. He had done his day’s work, he had no intention of joining in any search that might be made for the delinquents, and he promptly pretended slumber. But he hadn’t reckoned upon Leslie’s persistence nor his own uneasy conscience.
“Wake up there, Peter, if that’s your name! I’m your boss’s son, and I want a word with you. Wake up, man!”
The snores deepened. Rarely had the nose of mortal man emitted such ear-splitting sounds as now issued from the nostrils of the ranchman, as Leslie shoved aside the sliding door of the loose box and stepped within.
“Here, Molly-without-the-Miss, take the lantern and hold it so I can find the head inside that roll of blankets! Feet are big enough. Can’t miss them,” said the lad, stumbling over the protruding boots of the sleeper. “I’ll take this pitchfork and prod him up a bit. Hello, Pete! I say, Pete, you’ve earned your name one way – but you hardly deserve it another. ‘Silent!’ You’ll certainly keep the horses awake and – Wake up, I say! You shall!”
Leslie thrust the pitchfork into the boards of the floor so uncomfortably near that snoring nose that Pete hitched aside and so admitted himself awake. Molly ran into the box and held the lantern low, while the boy squatted at the teamster’s head and thumped it soundly. Both were giggling, which incensed their victim still further, and he suddenly tossed off his blanket with such force that it hit Molly’s face and made her jump away, while Leslie ordered:
“Quit that! Don’t you know how to treat a lady?”
There was no answer, save a frown directed toward the laughing girl, and the lad demanded:
“You’re to open your lips and tell us what you think has happened to that tenderfoot driver and his team. Why doesn’t he come in? They say you’re the oldest driver round, know the most about the roads, or trails, and your opinion’s wanted. Give it quick, because – Well, there’ll be some thing doin’ if you do know anything and don’t tell it. I don’t understand why I suspect you’re hiding things but I do; unless it’s that grudge I heard some men say you had against the ‘Sorrel’ fellow. Now, you talk. Where do you think that buckboard is?”
“Gone to smash.”
Molly screamed at this cool answer, and Leslie threatened his pitchfork. But it was neither of these things which moved Pete to tersely disclose his private opinion:
“I know nothin’. I guess shortcut and destruction. Lem knows the trail. T. Sorrel ain’t wuth huntin’, nor them boys. Little gal – might – Talk to Lem. Clear out.”
Having relieved his conscience of this much information the man buried his face again in his blanket and resumed his interrupted repose. Leslie wasted one moment of indignation upon him, as a heartless human being, then hurried out of the place and to his father.
When consulted, Lem Hunt hesitated for an instant only, then advised:
“Best get right a-doin’ things! No wagons, but fresh hosses and as many of ’em as want to go. Jiminy cricket! If T. Sorrel branched off where Pete thinks he did he’s done for hisself an’ all consarned. Let’s be steppin’!”
Fortunately, there were plenty of fresh horses at “Roderick’s” that night. A drove of them were corralled behind the inn, en route from a distant ranch to Denver, and thence eastward to market. All of them were well broken, to the saddle at least, and the best were promptly led out for Mr. Ford’s selection, leaving his own beasts to rest for the next day’s travel. Also, the drivers eagerly offered their own company, mounting without their saddles, which they insisted upon lending to the less experienced riders.
Excitement followed Lemuel’s advice to “Be steppin’,” and a very few minutes’ of bustling activity saw the cavalcade lined up before the inn with him for leader. It numbered Mr. Ford, Herbert and Monty, of that party; with Noll Roderick himself and three drovers. That Leslie had not joined the riders was due to his mother’s anxiety for his health, though his father had rather favored his going. The lad had been indignant at the “molly-coddling” and had hurt the tender heart of the Gray Lady by some angry words. Then he had walked away to the extreme end of the long piazza, whence he watched the disappearance of the rescuers down the moonlight road. As the horses’ footfalls died in the distance, his grumblings were interrupted by a light touch on his arm.
“Come around this corner, boy! Hurry up!”
He turned to find Molly Breckenridge beside him, her finger on her lip, and a wild light in her eyes. She was trembling with excitement and could scarcely wait to whisper:
“I’m
