It was his habit to grumble. He had been
complaining ever since they had started. But as he studied the heavy
billows of cloud banked above the peaks and in the saddle between, there
was real anxiety in his red, apoplectic face.
"Gittin' her back up for a blizzard, looks like. Doggone it, if that
wouldn't jest be my luck," he murmured fretfully.
Sheba hoped there would be one, not, of course, a really, truly blizzard
such as Macdonald had told her about, but the tail of a make-believe
one, enough to send her glowing with exhilaration into the roadhouse
with the happy sense of an adventure achieved. The girl had got out to
relieve the horses, and as her young, lissom body took the hill
scattering flakes of snow were already flying.
To-day she was buoyed up by a sense of freedom. For a time, at least,
she was escaping Macdonald's driving energy, the appeal of Gordon
Elliot's warm friendliness, and the unvoiced urging of Diane. Good old
Peter and the kiddies were the only ones that let her alone.
She looked back at the horses laboring up the hill. Swiftwater had got
down and was urging them forward, his long whip crackling about the ears
of the leaders. He waddled as he walked.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253