His Great Adventure. Robert Herrick

’Most every week, stranger,” she said softly.

      Brainard whistled.

      “What makes you do that?”

      He could feel her toss her head. Her answer was vague.

      “They’re goin’ somewheres.”

      “And you want to go on them?”

      “Perhaps. … I expect I shall some day.”

      “Where?”

      “Oh,” she sighed, “anywheres—California, maybe—New York—somewheres I can live!”

      The energy with which she uttered these last words had something pathetic in it. As if to avoid further confession, she urged the tired pony to a shambling trot and Brainard again found difficulty in keeping the pace. After another half hour of this blind progress behind his taciturn guide, the girl stopped before what seemed to be a mound of dirt and remarked:

      “Here’s Gunnison’s. Maybe the old man is abed—I’ll raise him for you.”

      She proceeded to pound vigorously with the butt of her quirt on the door of the dugout. Presently there was a sound within, and a human head appeared at the door.

      “Here’s a gentleman who wants to go to some place in Mexico,” the girl said in her gentle Southern voice. “I told him it was pretty fur from these parts, but I reckon you know how to git there, if any one does.”

      “Will you put me up for the night, anyway?” Brainard asked. “That’s the first thing.”

      “I can do that,” the sleepy Mr. Gunnison replied after a time, coming out of the door. “But if you be in a hurry to reach Mexico, stranger, you’d better go back to the railroad you come from, and take the next train.”

      “We’ll see about that in the morning,” Brainard replied.

      The girl had already unfastened the bag and mounted her pony.

      “Much obliged to you, miss, for all your help!”

      “That’s all right, stranger,” she said cheerily, starting the pony.