"I--I reckon I was wrong," he said, "for I was tryin' not to kiss you. If you say the word, I'll ride back with you and tell your father. I ain't ashamed of it--only if you say it was wrong." Dorothy had recovered herself. A twinkle of fun danced in her eyes. "I can't scold you now. You're going away. But when you get back--" And she shook her finger at him and tried to look very grave, which made him smile. "Then I'll keep right on ridin' south," he said. "But you'd get lonesome and come back to your hills. I know! And it's awfully hot in the desert." "Would you be wantin' me to come back?" "Of course. Father would miss you." [Illustration: They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared] "And that would make you unhappy--him bein' lonesome, so I reckon I'll come back." "I shall be very busy entertaining my guests," she told him with a charming tilt of her chin. And she straightway swung to the saddle. Lorry started the pack-horses up the hill and mounted Gray Leg. She sat watching him as he rode sideways gazing back at her. As he turned to follow the pack-horses up the next ascent she called to him:-- "Perhaps I won't scold you when you come back." He laughed, and flung up his arm in farewell. Dorothy reined Chinook round, and rode slowly down through the silent woodlands. Her father came out and took her horse. She told him of their most wonderful camp at the Big Spring. Bronson smiled. "And Lorry kissed me good-bye," she concluded. "Wasn't it silly of him?" Bronson glanced at her quickly. "Do you really care for Lorry, Peter Pan?" "Heaps! He's the nicest boy I ever met. Why shouldn't I?" "There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't. But I thought you two were just friends." "Why, that's what I said to Lorry. Don't look so mournful, daddy. You didn't think for a minute that I'd _marry_ him, did you?" "Of course not. What would I do without you?" Chapter XXVII _Waco_ The tramp Waco, drifting south through Prescott, fell in with a quartet of his kind camped along the railroad track. He stumbled down the embankment and "sat in" beside their night fire. He was hungry. He had no money, and he had tramped all that day. They were eating bread and canned peaches, and had coffee simmering in a pail. They asked no questions until he had eaten. Then the usual talk began. The hobos cursed the country, its people, the railroad, work and the lack of it, the administration, and themselves. Waco did not agree with everything they said, but he wished to tramp with them until something better offered. So he fell in with their humor, but made the mistake of cursing the trainmen's union. A brakeman had kicked him off a freight car just outside of Prescott. One of the hobos checked Waco sharply. "We ain't here to listen to your cussin' any union," he said. "And seem' you're so mouthy, just show your card." "Left it over to the White House," said Waco. "That don't go. You got your three letters?"