"You must! You must! Can't you see? You've got to go. We're—"
"Sure, I see," he said. It was very dark and he came closer. "You care! That's what it is. You used to, Sally, and you do now."
"Lafe, let me go! Please—please!"
She broke away and gained the door. She was panting. In the lighted entrance, she looked back.
"You've got to go to-morrow, remember," she said faintly.
But he did not go on the morrow. Floyd was astir before dawn—he usually fell asleep on a sofa immediately after his supper, thereby gaining a few hours on everyone else—and rode away with ten men to bring up the last herd of the sixteen thousand head he would ship.
Sally was distrait and restless all day. She punished the baby for upsetting a pitcher, and then ordered the Mexican nurse to take him and keep him out of her sight. Johnson stayed away from the house and busied himself at the corrals, where some newly purchased mules were being broken to harness for his employer. He never gave an order, yet the boys obeyed his slow-voiced suggestions with the same promptitude they gave to the boss's crisp commands. Lafe could always get obedience without visible exercise of authority. He knew his business and followed it without fluster.
At sunset, a cloud of dust whirled madly across country, with the rain close behind it. Sally ate alone—Lafe had evidently stayed at the bunkhouse—and she felt vaguely resentful. About nine she tucked the child into his bed and went out on to the veranda. The wind was dying, and the rain fell in a soft, steady murmur.
Johnson came running along the pathway and took the steps at a jump. He was wet, but jeered at her suggestion that he change.
"Only got this one suit," he said. "If it gets to shrinking much more on me, I'll have for to steal a blanket to-morrow, Sally."