The boy was still silent. "Kla'uns," said a faint, sleepy voice from the
mesquite, "take me." The rifle-shot had awakened Susy.

The stranger turned quickly towards the sound. Clarence started and
recalled himself. "There," he said bitterly, "you've done it now, you've
wakened her! THAT'S why I stayed. I couldn't carry her over there to
you. I couldn't let her walk, for she'd be frightened. I wouldn't wake
her up, for she'd be frightened, and I mightn't find her again. There!"
He had made up his mind to be abused, but he was reckless now that she
was safe.

The men glanced at each other. "Then," said the spokesman quietly, "you
didn't strike out for us on account of your sister?"

"She ain't my sister," said Clarence quickly. "She's a little girl.
She's Mrs. Silsbee's little girl. We were in the wagon and got down.
It's my fault. I helped her down."

The three men reined their horses closely round him, leaning forward
from their saddles, with their hands on their knees and their heads on
one side. "Then," said the spokesman gravely, "you just reckoned to stay
here, old man, and take your chances with her rather than run the risk
of frightening or leaving her--though it was your one chance of life!"

"Yes," said the boy, scornful of this feeble, grown-up repetition.

"Come here."

The boy came doggedly forward. The man pushed back the well-worn straw