Lassiter said that he was not dead, and set to work to stem the blood. It seemed to Frances that the world had fallen away from her, leaving her alone. She stood aside a little, her chin up in her old imperious way, her eyes on the far hills where the tender sunlight was just striking among the white-limbed aspen trees. But her heart was bent down to the darkness of despair.
She asked no questions of the men who were working so earnestly after their crude way to check that precious stream; she stood in the activity of passing troopers and escorted raiders insensible of any movement or sound in all the world around her. Only when Tom Lassiter stood from his ministrations and looked at her with understanding in his old weary eyes she turned her face back again, slowly resolute, to see if he had died.
Her throat was dry. It took an effort to bring a sound from it, and then it was strained and wavering.
“Is he—dead?”
“No, miss, he ain’t dead,” Tom answered. But there was such a shadow of sorrow and pain in his eyes that tears gushed into her own.
“Will—will—”
Tom shook his head. “The Lord that give him alone can answer that,” he said, a feeling sadness in his voice.
The troops had moved on, save the detail singled for police duty. These were tightening girths and trimming for the road again a little way from the 264 spot where Macdonald lay. The lieutenant returned hastily.
“Miss Landcraft, I am ordered to convey you to Alamito Ranch—under guard,” said he.