He laughed loudly, as he spoke, but Gard was replenishing the fire, and made no reply.
Long hours after Broome was sleeping, exhausted, his host sat before the glowing embers. The day’s experiences had brought much to consider.
For one thing, it was certain that the time had arrived when he must return to civilization. He could not keep Broome with him, even if the latter wished to stay. He saw endless possibilities of pain and trouble in such a partnership. And since he could not keep him, he must himself go before Broome had a chance to make any explorations. His heart sank at the prospect.
“It’s been mighty peaceful here, Jinny,” he whispered to his faithful little comrade, who dozed beside him in the firelight. “We’ll sure miss it.”
Jinny shifted her weight in her sleep, and her head drooped lower.
“One thing, old girl,” Gard said, regarding her, whimsically, “You don’t have to think about it. A man’s different; he knows when he’s well off, and hates to leave it.”
He glanced about him. The firelight touched fitfully the encircling trees, the great rocks, the open door of the shack where Broome lay asleep, the gleaming pool. Above in the violet depths, blazed the dipper; how many times he had watched it patrol the sky!
“I hate to go,” he whispered, again, “I hate to go, Jinny; but good as ’tis, I know it ain’t really life. A man belongs with men. They may be good or they may be bad; but a man’s got to take ’em as he meets up with ’em. He can’t be a real man forever, just by himself.”
CHAPTER VII
The first touch of dawn saw Gard awake and stirring. He went softly about the glade, feeding Jinny in her little corral off at one side, and preparing his own breakfast. The meal finished, he left food where his guest could find it, and made his way up the cañon. He had settled in his own mind that if Broome was able to travel they should leave the glade on the following day; but there was first something that he must do.