"Why, how do you figure it? I can't see my hand in front of my face."
"Figure it?" said the sheriff, who was trembling. "Man, I can feel it."
He cupped his hands and shouted—"Hetty! Oh—Hetty!"
"Here I am," said a drowsy voice. "Is that you, Lafe? Gracious, what's happened? It's dark."
There was the bride, sitting beside a mesquite bush and rubbing her eyes. They ran to her. She got up and limped a few steps.
"My foot's gone to sleep," she exclaimed.
With Lafe holding her on one side and Horne pacing austerely on the other, she walked into town. Why had she run away? She had run away from Mrs. Horne and the Widow because she perceived what they planned to do. For an hour or two she waited for Lafe outside the town and then grew very sleepy. So she lay down beside the bush.
"I knew you would find me," said she.
Horne began to whistle, not caring to hear the sheriff's assurance that he would find her at the ends of the world—wherever those be.
"What time is it? Lafe, dear, I'm so hungry. I feel like a steak," said Hetty.