“What a pretty name,” said Adam Larey, musingly, as the avalanche and Mr. and Mrs. Virey spilled over into the declivity below, lifting to heaven a thick, crashing, rolling roar of thunder. When the last rumble died away, silence and solitude reigned over all. Adam Larey was alone at last.
XI
He did meet Ruth on page 392. Her mother had evidently been reading ahead.
“Oh, you Sheik,” she said. “Desert man, I am lonesome. Stay—stay, desert man, and make me a woman.”
Gosh! wasn’t she awful? Adam Larey fled. The younger generation was too much for him. Besides, he had yet to atone for his brother’s death—to surrender to the sheriff, be hanged for murder—then, only then, would his conscience cease its seventeen years’ bickering—then, only then, could he return and claim her for his bride.
XII
Muchacho again—the scene of his boyhood—and his old friend, Merrywell.
“Old friend,” said Adam Larey, “lead me to my brother’s grave.”
“His grave?” said Merrywell. “Gosh! he ain’t got none, as I knows on.”
“What?” cried Adam Larey. “Why didn’t they bury him?”