ack to the farm
would Anton go and she could follow.

He dashed aside from the wheel-rutted track. She stumbled over the
ridges, kept him in sight, and followed him. He doubled and twisted, so
did she. He dashed forward in a long straight line, curved, circled, and
came back to the wood-road some distance ahead. She did not curve but
cut his circle by a short line and brought up at his side.

"Huh! 'Tis a good rider you are, Miss Molly, but you'd best go back now.
I'm for the camp."

"Never! You can't be! They wouldn't trust you, you're so tricksy. Who'd
want you there?"

He was instantly offended and showed it, drawing himself erect on the
gray mare and tossing his head high while his narrow black eyes looked
angrily at her. Then he drew from his blouse the packet Mrs. Hungerford
had given him and haughtily explained:

"For that Judge. Now, am I trusted? No?"

It was very strange. Ever since she had been at the farm she had heard
of Anton's pranks and trickiness. Tasks he had been set to perform were
always neglected except that one of keeping fuel supplied, and this work
brought him, also, constantly under his mistress's eye. Yet he allowed
Molly to come so close she could recognize her aunt's handwriting
outside the packet, and especially that word "Important."

Suddenly she resolved.

"Anton, if you ride to camp I ride with you."

"You will not. I say it." He wasn't going to be disappointed of his fun
along the way by the presence of this girl, and no time had been told
him when that parcel must be delivered. It must come to the Judge
_sometime_, that was all. The later the better for him, Anton, the more
leisure to enjoy the wild and escape that eternal carrying of wood. "You
will not," he repeated, more firmly.

"I will so. That is for my father. His name is on it and it is
'Important.' I will see that he gets it. I don't trust you, Anton."

He was rather impressed by the fact that she could read what was
written--he could not. He was also angered further by that unwise remark
about not trusting him. He stared at her, she stared back. Good! It was
a battle of wills, then!

He seemed to waver, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. All roads lead
to one's goal, if one knows them. He was an Indian. He could not be lost
in any forest, he who was wise in woodcraft and could tell all
directions by signs this "foreigner" could not know. He snapped his
fingers, airily, pricked Bess forward again and into a tr