Though the evangelist had never seen her trudging behind the mules, he had often spoken of it pityingly. Yet, as he came toward her now, he felt only an unbounded pride—in her unselfishness, and in her brave efforts to wrest a living from the soil.
"A splendid Ruth," he murmured, advancing, "a splendid Ruth, toiling in the fields!"
Seeing him, she gave a swift, troubled glance at the shack. Then, avoiding his eyes, and without speaking, she pulled up Ben and Betty and held out a hand.
When he took it, the pride of a moment before changed to compassion. He remembered that he must tell her what would alarm. For in her face he saw the traces of many a sleepless night, and of a sapping worry.
"Daughter, you are ill!" he declared, and kept a tight hold on her fingers.
"No, there ain't anything the matter with me. Only"—still avoiding his eyes, she turned to survey the harrowed land—"only, I'm some put out. This sod——"
"Never mind the sod," he said gravely. "I want to ask—did you see the mountain?" He loosed her fingers, and pointed an arm to the south.
She laughed, following his pointing. "Yes, I did. Looks as if claims are getting scarce, don't it? When a nester has to file up there!"
Midway between shack and butte was an ox-team that had been travelling to and fro across a quarter-section since dawn. The team was now at a stand, and their driver was slouching against his plow. Beyond him were several galloping dots.
"And you saw the cavalry?" said David Bond.