ANDY JEROME came swinging down the cañon with the stride of a conquering hero, straight and strong under a burdensome pack. Both Charmian and Shonto regarded him in admiration as he came—he was so handsome, so well fortified with the confidence of youth, so sure that his vigorous young manhood was a match for any obstacle.
Charmian shouted and waved her hand. The homecomer waved back and sent the echoes cantering down the gorge after his long-drawn baritone whoop of greeting.
“What can have happened to Henry?” the young widow murmured, half to herself.
Shonto made no reply, but his face looked worried.
“Well, for mercy’s sake!” cried the girl when Andy was close enough to hear her high-pitched words. “Where are you coming from? Where’s the weather bureau?”
Andy Jerome came swinging on, slipping on the nigger-heads repeatedly, but always catching himself with the indifference that springy, always-ready muscles bequeath to youth.
“Some trip!” he laughed. “I just naturally walked old Marblehead off his feet. Then I left him to die and made the rounds alone.”
He reached them, eased his pack to the stones with a great sigh, and held out both hands to them—his right to Charmian.
“Golly, I’m tired!” he ejaculated; but he looked as if any weariness that he might feel would forsake him after an hour’s rest.
“Where is Henry?” asked Shonto soberly. “And how are you back so soon?—and coming down the gorge?”