About eight o’clock, Mary came in and told Owen that Steve wanted to see him. When Owen returned, instead of coming into the living-room, he went to the closet, took down his short, fleece-lined riding coat and began to put it on.
“What’s the matter, Owen, you are not going out?”
“I must,” he said, quietly, winding a long scarf about his neck, “Steve says that Dorn went out yesterday afternoon with a load of hay for the camp on Six Shooter; he should have come back last night or certainly this morning. He’s new and doesn’t know the country and he may be lost. I’m going to see if I can find him.”
My heart stood still; the camp on Six Shooter gulch was fully eight miles away. Eight miles in that storm! It did not seem possible that a man could live to go a mile.
“Oh, Owen, I can’t let you go! Don’t you suppose he is at the camp?”
“I don’t know, he may be, but I must go and find out. We can’t take a chance on a man’s being lost.” In the face of that argument there was nothing to say and nothing to do but accept it.
“Who is going with you?”
“No one”—Owen did not look at me as he answered—“I can’t ask any of the men to face this storm.”
I understood; he couldn’t require any of his men to risk their lives. A hand of ice closed about my heart and deadened every sensibility. Like a machine I went about helping Owen get ready and at last went to the kitchen to bring him some coffee just before he left. A man was standing by the door muffled in wraps. I stood still.
“Why, Bill, where have you been?”