“Alas, you but speak the truth. But my daughter? My poor, poor child?”
“Didn’t you say just now that the Lord was on the perarer the same as in the great cities? I believe you did, and I believe it’s gospel truth. But your Esther shall not want a friend, if it was only for the sake of the poor little child that was named for her.”
“But what shall I do?”
“You and the boys must stop here. When it gets to be dark you will see the light from the fires of your train yender. La Moine would never pass that camping-ground. It’s a cl’ar road—no sloos or rocks between, and you ought to ride it in two hours. I’ve done it many a time in half the time. You must go there and tell the Frenchman that Kirk Waltermyer says he mustn’t move until he hears from him.”
“But suppose any accident should happen to you?”
“Accident! Well, stranger, thar mought be such a thing, that’s a fact, but I don’t believe it,” and he laughed as if disaster to him was an utter impossibility. “Anyhow, you keep quiet thar, and if I don’t come back within three days and bring your daughter safe and sound, tell La Moine to take the back track, hunt up my bones and bring them in.”
“And I?”
“Must trust in heaven. Kirk Waltermyer will have done all that was possible for man to do.”
“I believe it must be as you say. The horses, poor things, are worn out, and I feel that I could not long endure riding. But had you not better take some of the boys with you?”
“Not a single one. They would only bother me.”