"Lance!" she choked. "Did you sure enough send that word by your 382 father to the sheriff?—Did you say you'd give up and go in—did you?"
"Yes," he returned somberly. "I did, Callista. That's all that was left me."
"My God!" she breathed. "And I couldn't believe it—not a word of it. But I just slipped out and come. I've got Gran'pappy's horse Maje and the Mandy mule tied down in the bushes below there, and—"
Cleaverage glanced about him and, rising, began to roll together the blankets of his bed.
"Yes," he repeated, in a sort of automatic fashion. "Pappy left me before midnight, and he was riding Satan. I reckon I ought to be moving right soon now. It must be sun-up outside, ain't it?"
She looked at him with desperate doubt.
"Lance!" she demanded, clutching his arm with her trembling hand. "What made you send Father Cleaverage with such word as that?—and never let me know!—Oh, Lance, what did you do it for? Bring them things and come on down quick. There may be time yet."
He stared at her dumbly questioning for a moment. Long misery had made his wits slow. He plainly hesitated between thinking her the emissary sent from home for him and the understanding that she wanted him to escape.
"Time?" he repeated. "Do you mean—?"