Part 49 (1/2)

At the end of another day Sandy became restless; his capacity for loafing was exhausted.

”Let's go get a bear,” he proposed.

”Deer's better meat,” said McHale; ”also easier to get. I won't climb after no bear.”

Nevertheless, he accompanied Sandy down the valley. They saw no bear; but they shot a young buck, and returned to camp with the carca.s.s lashed behind Sandy's saddle. Although it was closed season, they needed the meat, and game wardens were not likely to intrude.

But when they came in sight of their camp they saw old Simon reclining in grandeur on their blankets, smoking.

”The nerve of that buck!” snorted McHale. ”Get off of that bed, you old copperskin. Think I want to wash them blankets?”

Simon obeyed, but he drew a letter from his pocket.

”Papah,” said he. ”Casey.”

McHale read Casey's warning as to Dade, and whistled softly, pa.s.sing the letter to Sandy.

”So this here Dade makes it a feud, does he?” he said meditatively.

”All right, he can have it that way. Same time, I'm goin' to keep out of trouble long as I can. I'll stay cached mighty close, and I'll run like blazes before I'll fight. Simon, how'd you find this camp?”

”Find um easy,” said Simon scornfully. He pointed to the carca.s.s of the deer. ”S'pose you _mamook_ cook um.”

CHAPTER XXVII

In the morning Sheila awoke stiff and sore, but rested. Her strong young body, hard and well conditioned by a life in the open and much healthy exercise, refused to indulge in the luxury of after effects of shock. Looking around, she found that her clothes were gone. But spread ready for her was a dainty morning costume, which she knew for Clyde Burnaby's. Dressing quickly, she entered the breakfast room.

Clyde, sitting by the window, rose, smiling, as she entered.

”I hope they fit,” she said. ”How do you feel, Miss McCrae?”

”They fit very well, and I feel first rate,” said Sheila. ”I'm sore in spots, but I'll limber up when I get moving. Where is Mrs. Wade? I suppose Casey has gone to Talapus.”

”Kitty's busy cleaning your riding clothes,” Clyde replied. ”Casey has gone; I haven't seen him.”

It was the first time she had used his given name to a third person. It slipped out naturally, and she coloured a trifle, but Sheila did not appear to notice. They breakfasted together, and later sat on the veranda enjoying the perfect morning after the storm. Naturally, they spoke of the events of the preceding day and night. Sheila took a practical view.

”It was lucky Tom McHale wasn't here,” she said. ”Somebody would have been hurt. That's what I was afraid of.”

”It was very brave of you,” said Clyde. ”I admire you more than I can say. I want you to know it, Miss McCrae.”

”Oh, that”--Sheila dismissed the warm praise with a wave of her brown hand--”why, it wasn't anything; only a wet ride in the dark. If my horse had kept his feet it would have been all right. I simply had to come. Don't try to make me think myself a heroine. You'd do the same thing yourself for a friend.”

”I'm afraid I couldn't. I'm not much of a rider, and I couldn't have found my way in the dark.”

”Well, that's no credit to me. I've been riding all my life, and I know every foot of this country. Of course, I'd do anything for Casey or Tom.”

”Yes,” said Clyde, ”they both think a great deal of you, I know.”

”No more than I think of them--especially Casey. Some day I suppose he'll get married, and then I'll have to call him 'Mr. Dunne.'”