146“No!” he said, “I don’t want any friends. Come on, I believe that’s McGraw.”
He rose up hastily and held out his hand to help her but she refused to accept his aid. Her lips were trembling, there were tears in her eyes and her breast was beginning to heave; but there was no explanation he could give. He wanted her, yes, but not as a friend–as his beloved, his betrothed, his wife! By any name, but not by the name of friend. He drew away slowly as her head bowed to her knees; and at last he left her, weeping. It was best, after all, for how could he comfort her? And he could see McGraw’s dust down the road.
“I’m going to meet McGraw!” he called back from the steps and went bounding off down the trail.
147CHAPTER XVII
BROKE
McGraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. He came jangling up the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily in their collars; and as Denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor.
“Where’s my powder?” demanded Denver looking over the load, “and say, didn’t you bring that coal? I don’t see that steel I ordered, either!”
“No,” said McGraw and then, after a silence: “Murray wouldn’t receive your ore.”
“Wouldn’t receive it!” yelled Denver, “why, what was the matter with it–did the sacks get broke going down?”
“No,” answered McGraw, “the sacks were all right. He said the ore was no good.”