“Went away? By himself? Why?” exclaimed Mr. Burnham, in surprise.
They had stopped to eat their luncheon of bread and milk, intending or, at least, hoping to reach in time for supper some spot where there would be water when Mrs. Burnham would prepare something hot and palatable.
“I—I cannot tell you.”
“Do you know?”
“Yes, Mr. Burnham.”
“Why can’t you tell, then?”
“Because I promised not.”
“Why, my dear. This is serious. Has anything gone wrong?” persisted her host, yet with great kindness of manner.
“No, I think not. But, if you please, I would rather not talk.”
In her own mind she was sure that something might have gone very wrong, indeed. The suggested “hour or two” had stretched to twice that time, and still he had not come in sight. Nothing that moved was visible across the mighty plain and its silence seemed intolerable. The railroad gleamed in the sunshine till it dwindled in the distance to a mere point and vanished. Beside it ran a bordering road of earth whereon the slower wheels of wagons could crawl east or west; and along this, at intervals pitifully short, were skeletons of cattle, so ghastly and suggestive that, looking upon them, Carlota’s heart filled with dread of her brother’s fate.