“Do you think they will get here soon? I don’t see why they stay so. They must know that I am frightened. Father never left me alone so long.” For the time being, Dora seemed to have forgotten Loney. Muriel combed and dressed Dora’s thick, dark hair, comforting and consoling her with tender words all the while, until, bathed and refreshed, she waited with Muriel for supper. Indeed they needed it, as Pierson had kept them on the road for many hours on foot, making them climb ridges, and walk over arid stretches, until they were exhausted. He did not wish to travel in the usual manner, as it would have been too public, and some one might recognize him, Muriel or Dora. Of Dopey he had no fear, for the lives of such as Dopey are like those of the rats--mostly underground and out of sight. And it was part of his plan to half-starve both Muriel and Dora, but, being in the “hotel,” he dared not give rise to suspicion by neglecting to order food for them. “Mr. Duffy,” said John, “my wife and daughter are so worn out with the trip that I would beg you to send their supper to their room, if it can be done.” “Certainly it can be done, if it takes the whole outfit. I hope the young lady is better.” “I fear she never will be better. Her last chance is the solitude of the mountains, and the air.” “Did you come over in the stage?” “No, we had a rig from--from--I don’t know what the name of the place is, but my daughter is so tender-hearted--and so difficult to manage sometimes--that she could not bear to see the horses pulling so, and insisted on walking. The driver told us the place was just over the rise, so--we walked, and it _was_ a walk!” “I should think so. You will have your supper down here, I suppose?” “Oh, yes; my man and I. This does seem to be a lively place, if I could judge by some certain sounds during the afternoon.” “That was nothing, only the boys having some fun with a tenderfoot. You never saw such an outfit. A Jew with a horse--well, every boy on the range has given it a feed since it came, and it is eating yet!” “Where is the tenderfoot, as you call him, now?” “Oh, asleep in his little bed. Maybe he won’t have a headache in the morning! Oh, no; I guess not! And it was his first drink, too. Will you have one, sir, on me?” “No, thank you. I never drink, but I’ll take a box of Henry Clays, if you have them.” “I just have! You see, I keep them for the fellows from the mines. When they come down flush, nothing else is good enough for them. Then, by the time they have been here an hour they couldn’t tell what they’re smoking, so I have to give them cheaper ones. But this box has never been opened.” “I am glad to get it. I expect we’ll go up in the mountains as soon as I can locate a place and get a shack. Then I’ll send to Cheyenne for our traps and settle down for a while. Any doctors about here?”