The misery of indecision had dropped from the deserter like a cloak that is shed. He laughed encouragingly over his shoulder at Hetty, as he turned to leave.
"Did you expect me to holler, Johnson?" he asked. "Not much! Why, this is going home, to me."
"Ready?" Osborne cried.
"And when I get out, I'll be able to look you boys in the face, too. Not you, Osborne. You can't look me in the eye right now. Pshaw! What is a year in a lifetime?"
"Quit your preaching. Come on."
"Adios, Mary Lou. Adios, Hetty. So long, Johnson. I'll see you soon."
"Guard and prisoner—'tention! Fours—left about—march!"
They swung around and made northwest, Wilkins in their midst. He was making his horse prance and was humming "Dixie." Once he looked back and waved his arm in a wide gesture towards the Huachucas, towering on the left; to the right, the straggling Mules range; and the San Pedro valley between, stretching away for eighty miles.
"What about this little ol' country now, hey?" he shouted. "What do you think of her, hey? How about this air? Lord!"
Hetty waved at him, but Mary Lou, who had drawn out a handkerchief to do the same, wept into it instead. They started slowly homeward, Lafe ambling along in gloomy quiet. Hetty did not perceive his mood, being too uplifted over her brother's recovery to be cognizant of lesser things. She ranged beside her husband. There were tears on her cheeks, but she was smiling and humming "Dixie."