She went out a little later, into the glaring, shimmering sunlight of the morning, her cheeks red, her eyes aglow, her heart racing wildly, to see an engine and a luxurious private car just pulling from the main track to a switch.
“Oh,” she whispered, joyously; “it’s father’s!”
And she ran toward it, tingling with a new-found hope.
In her room at the Castle sat a woman who was finding the world very empty. It held nothing for her except the sad consolation of repentance.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FIGHT
“The boss is sure a she-wolf at playin’ a lone hand,” growled Barkwell, shortly after dusk, to Jud Weaver, the straw boss. “Seems he thinks his friends is delicate ornaments which any use would bust to smithereens. Here’s his outfit layin’ around, bitin’ their finger nails with ongwee an’ pinin’ away to slivers yearnin’ to get into the big meal-lee, an’ him racin’ an’ tearin’ around the country fightin’ it out by his lonesome. I call it rank selfishness!”
“He sure ought to have give us a chancst to claw the hair outen that damned Corrigan feller!” complained Weaver. “In some ways, though, I’m sorta glad the damned mine was blew up. ‘Firebrand’ would have sure got a-hold of her some day, an’ then we’d be clawin’ at the bowels of the earth instid of galivantin’ around on our cayuses like gentlemen. I reckon things is all for the best.”