“You were going to tell me,” continued Morse, after a pause that he deemed sufficient to allow the turbulent waters in the breast of Waltermyer to subside, “you were going to tell me something that you couldn’t find words to express. This is what you were saying.”
“Soft words, stranger, soft words. Yes, I was, but poor little Est put it all out of my mind. Forget it, and don’t think me a baby for cryin’ about one who has been so long dead.”
“Forget it? I think the better of you for it. It shows you have a heart, and that it is in the right place. No brave or true man forgets his little ones who are sleeping beneath the cold sod of the valley.”
“Truer words you never spoke, and the memory of that dear little child that God took to be a bright-winged angel—yes, them was the very words the old minister used—has kept me from many a sin out on the frontier.”
“May it always do so.”
“And now, then, about what I was a-goin’ to say. Ef I don’t word it softly, stranger, you must forgive me, for it’s the tongue and not the heart.”
“You need no apology. Go on, friend.”
“Friend, yes. Waal, I will try to earn that name. And now, stranger, what I was a-goin’ to say was this. You can’t follow this trail any longer.”
“Not follow the trail? You must be mad.”
“No, no. I only wish I was. You’re an old man, and the hard ridin’ ana hot work we’ve had is tellin’ on you. You need rest and must have it or you will die right out. Stranger, a horse or a deer that outruns its strength falls suddenly. I know the nature of the beasts and I allow its just the same with humans. Then, too, you haven’t a horse in the bull crowd that could stand an hour’s journey in the mountings. Besides it will soon be dark—dark as a pile of black snakes, for thar is no moon to-night, and he who rides must have a sure hand and an eye that is used to followin’ trails.”