Sunset Ranch: A Story of a Boy's Adventures in the West — page 255: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Stampede. 243 Polly came at last. It was evidently hard to crush the little maid’s spirits, for she was humming a tune as she bent over to dip her bucket in the clear water of the spring, and Karl was strangely thrilled when he recognized the familiar strain of a song he and Cuthbert had sung in company with her sweet, birdlike voice on many a starry evening, with a tinkling Mexican mandolin for accompaniment. “Polly !” The girl ceased humming; she started and raised her head. Karl could see by the firelight that her face was white with an eager apprehension, as though she feared lest hope might have sung falsely to her. | | “Tt’s me, Polly—Karl, you know. Don’t let on you're listening, for some one might be looking and see what was up. But listen to what I say. Can you hear plainly?” “Oh, yes, Karl, and I’m so glad. Is Mr. Kelly with you, and Cuthbert?” said the girl, with an ea- gerness that could not be wholly concealed. “I’m sorry to say not; but I reckon they’re on the road here, all of ’em. You remember the Sioux boy, Little Buckshot? Well, he’s here, and we mean to get you out of this fix.” “How good and brave of you, Karl.” “Never mind. That’ll do to tell me after we’ve got you back. We know your hut. Keep awake, and when you hear an owl cry three times, come down here with your bucket. You catch what I mean, Polly?” He spoke quickly, because there was always a chance of their being interrupted. Indeed, even then he saw a woman, bucket in hand, stop to gos- sip with another poor slave at a fire, as though about to come for water. Polly eagerly gave an affirmative reply. She was cComnicloooks C©