When Burnett reached the door, he looked back at her. The girl's lips were parted in a brilliant, farewell smile. He whirled about and came toward her again.
"Kid," he said huskily, "I'm a hard-headed old cuss, harder'n brass tacks. I been made so by just such men as Andy Bishop—" He paused, and during his short hesitation, pregnant with meaning, Tessibel kept her eyes on him. "I was wonderin', little one," he finished, shame-faced, "when you say your prayers, if you'd pipe one for me. I need it, so help me God, I do."
In another moment he was at the door, and in response to the hasty glance he sent her, Tess flung him a misty, loving smile.
"Sure, sir, sure I will," she called, "an' thank ye for bein' so kind."
Burnett strode out; Tessibel rolled off the dwarf's body to one side of the cot, and Andy gave an audible grunt.
"I air gee-danged glad that air over," sighed Tess. And as she lay very still, the warden's hearty voice came floating to her.
"That's a mighty fine girl you got, Skinner."
Tess also heard her father's husky reply. "Bet yer life, she air.... Good day to ye, sir."
Shortly after, the anxious listeners in the shanty heard the click of the horse's shoes and the rumble of the departing wheels on the stones amid the wagon's creaking complaints against the steepness of the hill.