At the top of the ridge Charley Morton called a halt.
"This is pretty easy country," said he. "We'll run the line square down
either side. Get busy."
"Have a cup of coffee first," urged Amy.
"Surely. Forgot that."
They drank the coffee, finding it good, and tucked away the lunches Amy,
with her unfailing forethought, had brought them.
"Good-bye!" she called gaily; "I've got to get back to camp before the
fire cuts me off. I won't see you again till the fire burns me out a way
to get to you."
"Take my horse, too," said Mrs. Morton, dismounting. "You don't need me
in camp."
Amy took the lead rein and rode away as a matter of course. She was
quite alone to guard the horses and camp equipage on the little knoll
while the fire spent its fury all around her. Everybody seemed to take
the matter for granted; but Bob looked after her with mingled feelings
of anxiety and astonishment. This Western breed of girl was still beyond
his comprehension.
The work was at once begun. In spite of the cruel throb of his injured
hand, Bob found the labour pleasant by sheer force of contrast.
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