“I’m not askin’ you to mix up in it. But I’ll tell you the truth. I’m scairt of that fellow. He’ll send us to the pen sure as he’s alive. I’ll fix his clock. You keep out of it.” “I don’t want to hear a word about it. Not a word. Understand. I’ve forgotten what you told me. You’d better forget it, too.” “Hmp! Mebbe you wantta go to serve time. I don’t. With that fellow outa the way we’d be all right. You don’t have to know a thing about it. I got a way to fix things. Sure have.” “Well, don’t come to me about it. I’ll not listen to a word.” Robert Dodson showed his bad teeth in an evil grin. He understood that he had been told to go ahead and play his own hand. CHAPTER XLI FROM THE JUNIPERS Tommie the red-headed stayed after school to bring in kindling and a supply of piñon wood for the big drum stove in the centre of the room. Ever since his teacher had whipped him he had been her eager and willing slave. His eye was always alert to anticipate the needs of the slim, vital young woman he adored. So wholly was his heart hers that Vicky was more touched than amused. He was a forlorn little orphan, sometimes underfed, she suspected, and she mothered him in such ways as she found possible. Perhaps she favoured him ever so little in the assignment of school privileges dear to children, such as letting him pass the water more often than she did others. “I got kindlin’ an’ wood ’n everythin’, teacher. What’ll I do now?” he asked. Vicky, working over next day’s lessons at the desk, smiled her thanks. “That’s all, Tommie. You’re a great help. Run along home now.” “Must I?” he pleaded. “Can’t I go home when you go?” “No, Tommie. I’ve a lot of work to do yet. And you know you promised to clean up the yard for Mrs. Fenway.” Under pretense of seeing whether her pencil needed sharpening, Tommie sidled up to the desk close to his teacher. She knew what he wanted. If she had kissed him his masculine vanity would have been wounded, but the lonely child in him craved affection. Her arm slipped round his shoulder and she gave him a quick hug, scolding him a little at the same time because his coat was torn. Tommie grinned and ran out of the building. A moment later she heard his carefree whoop outside. It happened that the boy was at that particular stage of life when his imagination revelled in make-believes. It was impossible for him to walk home sedately along the path. He told himself he was Kit Carson, and he hunted Indians as he dodged through the sage toward town. The young scout’s heart gave a little jump of fear. For in the clump of junipers to which his stealthy steps had brought him two men lay stretched on the ground. One of them carried a rifle. “I got it fixed,” the other was saying, almost in a murmur. “Sent him a note from that li’l tiger cat the schoolmarm for him to come an’ walk home with her. He’ll be along sure.”