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She got to the branding pen. Uncle Hank came to its bars. She was just about to give her message, when something in the old man’s face stopped her. He was looking toward Shorty, who came galloping, a hand up, his mouth open. She knew Shorty must be calling, though in the din of the roundup she couldn’t hear any word. Uncle Hank jumped the bars and ran toward the oncoming rider, and then she got the cowpuncher’s voice.

“Pearsall—Charley’s hurt.”

With one motion Hank swung around, flung the reins over Buckskin’s head, was on him and away. The two men galloped side by side. Hilda began to run. She had no memory of the cook’s errand, no fear of the herd or the hard-driven horses. She ran desperately, blindly, till stopped by old Snake Thompson’s voice and hand.

She was picked up as a big dog picks up a puppy. Old Snake had scooped her from the ground in the manner of a cowpuncher lifting a handkerchief in a display of fancy riding.

“Lookee here,” he said with irrelevant wisdom, “children should be saw, not heard. What in time are you doing here?”