She followed closer than a shadow on his footsteps;
no tortures could wring his secrets from her lips. Once, when he hid
himself in the mountains for a day and night and played Indian, she kept
silence, though she knew his hiding-place, and a search party was out with
lanterns until dawn.
"I didn't tell," she said triumphantly, when he came down again.
"No, you didn't tell," he frankly acknowledged.
"So I can keep a secret," she declared at last.
"Oh, yes, you can keep a secret--for a girl," he returned, and added, "I
tell you what, I like you better than anybody about here, except grandpa
and Big Abel."
She shone upon him, her eyes narrowing; then her face darkened. "Not better
than Big Abel?" she questioned plaintively.
"Why, I have to like Big Abel best," he replied, "because he belongs to me,
you know--you ought to love the thing that belongs to you."
"But I might belong to you," suggested Betty. She smiled again, and,
smiling or grave, she always looked as if she were standing in a patch of
sunshine, her hair made such a brightness about her.
"Oh, you couldn't, you're white," said Dan; "and, besides, I reckon Big
Abel and the pony are as much as I can manage. It's a dreadful weight,
having people belong to you."
Then he loaded his gun, and Betty ran away with her fingers in her ears,
because she couldn't bear to have things killed.
A month later Dan and Champe settled down to study.
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