Saterlee, with his eyes on the broad, brown flood which they were approaching, repeated like a lesson:
"'Mark—I'm dying. I want it to do good, not harm. Jenny always thought the world of you. You'll be lonely when I'm gone. I don't want you to be lonely. You gave me peace on earth. And you can't be happy unless you've got a woman to pet and pamper. That's your nature—'"
He paused.
"That was all," he said, and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "It just stopped there."
"I'm glad you told me," said Mrs. Kimbal gently. "It will be a lesson to me not to spring to conclusions, and not to make up my mind about things I'm not familiar with."
When they came to where the road disappeared under the swift unbroken brown of Gila River, the old horse paused of her own accord, and, turning her bony and scarred head a half revolution, stared almost rudely at the occupants of the buggy.
"It all depends," said Saterlee, "how deep the water runs over the road, and whether we can keep to the road. You see, it comes out higher up than it goes in. Can you swim, Ma'am?"
Mrs. Kimbal admitted that, in clothes made to the purpose, and in very shallow water, she was not without proficiency.
"Would you rather we turned back?" he asked.
"I feel sure you'll get me over," said she.