Some instinct--yes, quite likely.
Molly ran to her abandoned wagonette, pushed in under the white tilt where her pallet bed lay rolled, her little personal plunder stored about.

Fumbling, she found her sulphur matches.

She would build her signal fire.

It was, at least, all that she could do.

It might at least alarm the camp.
Trembling, she looked about her, tore her hands breaking off little faggots of tall dry weed stems, a very few bits of wild thorn and fragments of a plum thicket in the nearest shallow coulee.