She had
been coming to the mountains and the canyons alone, for four
years doing by herself what she would have done under her
father's supervision had he lived. That argued for steadfastness
and strength of character. She would not utter one word of
flattery. She would say nothing she did not mean. Watching her
intently, Donald Whiting thought of all these things. He thought
of what she had said about fighting for him, and he wondered if
it really was true that any girl he knew would fight for him. He
hardly believed it when he remembered some of his friends, so
entirely devoted to personal adornment and personal
gratification. But Linda had said that all women were alike in
their hearts. She knew about other things. She must know about
this. Maybe all women would fight for their young or for their
men, but he knew of no other girl who could drive a Bear Cat with
the precision and skill with which Linda drove. He knew no other
girl who was master of the secrets of the desert and the canyons
and the mountains. Certainly he knew no other girl who would tug
at great boulders and build a fireplace and risk burning her
fingers and scorching her face to prepare a meal for him. So he
watched Linda and so he thought.
At first he thought she was the finest pal a boy ever had, and
then he thought how he meant to work to earn and keep her
friendship; and then, as the fire reddened Linda's cheeks and she
made running comments while she deftly turned her skewers of
brigand beefsteak, food that half the Boy Scouts in the country
had been eating for four years, there came an idea with which he
dallied until it grew into a luring vision.
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