A couple of hours later when Patty concluded her detailed narrative, Thompson leaned back in his chair. "I got a crow to pick with Vil Holland, all right, fer not lettin' me in on that there raid."
"Maybe he didn't have time," suggested the girl, and suppressed a desire to smile at the readiness with which she sprang to the defense of her "guardian devil of the hills."
Protesting that she needed no rest after her night of wild adventure, Patty refused the pressing invitation of the Thompsons to remain at the ranch, and mounting her horse, headed for the cabin on Monte's Creek.
Once through the canyon, she turned abruptly into the hills and as her horse, unguided, topped low divides, and threaded mile after mile of narrow valleys, her thoughts wandered from the all-absorbing topic of her father's location, to the man for whom she had so recently experienced such a signal revulsion of feeling. "How could I ever have been deceived by that disgusting Monk Bethune?" she muttered. "Especially after he warned me against him. It's a wonder I couldn't have seen him for the sleek oily devil that he is. I must have been crazy." She shuddered at the recollection of that day in the little valley when he boldly made love to her. "It's just blind luck that--that something _awful_ didn't happen. I could see the lurking devil in his eyes! And I saw it again, when he sneered at Mr. Christie. And when Pierce showed very plainly what he thought of him, he cursed everybody in the hills, and then offered his glaringly false explanation as to why people hate and distrust him." At the top of a low divide, she turned her horse into a valley that was not, by any means, the most direct route to the little cabin on Monte's Creek. A half hour later she came out onto the plateau, upon the edge of which Vil Holland's little tent nestled against its towering rock fragment.
For just an instant she hesitated, then, blushing, rode boldly across the open space toward the little patch of white that showed through the scrub timber. Pulling up before the tent door the girl glanced about her. Everything was in its place. Her eyes rested approvingly upon the well-scoured cooking utensils that hung in an orderly row. Evidently the camp had not been used the night before. She drew off her glove and, leaning over, felt the blankets that were thrown over the ridgepole. They were still wet with the heavy dew, and the dampened ashes showed that no fire had been built that morning. "Oh, where is he?" whispered the girl, glancing wildly about, "Surely, he has had time to reach here--if he's--all right." After a few moments of silence she laughed nervously: "He's all right," she assured herself with forced cheerfulness. "Of course, he wouldn't return here right away. He probably had to help drive those horses back, or--or help bury that man, or something. I wonder what he thinks of me? Pierce will tell him his suspicions, and then--finding me mixed in with those horses--he'll think I've 'thrown in' with Bethune, as he would say. I must see him. I must!"