Nash was deeply concerned. “Is that so? Well, that’s hard luck. Is he badly hurt?”
“Well, he had a terrible fall. But he’s easier now. I think he’s asleep.”
“May I look in on him?”
“I don’t think you’d better take the time. It’s a long, hard ride from here to the station. It will be deep night before you can make it—”
“Don’t you think the Supervisor would want me to camp here to-night and do what I could for you? If Norcross is badly injured you will need me.”
She liked Nash, and she knew he was right, and yet she was reluctant to give up the pleasure of her lone vigil. “He’s not in any danger, and we’ll be able to ride on in the morning.”
Nash, thinking of her as Clifford Belden’s promised wife, had no suspicion of her feeling toward Norcross. Therefore he gently urged that to go on was quite out of order. “I can’t think of leaving you here alone—certainly not till I see Norcross and find out how badly he is hurt.”
She yielded. “I reckon you’re right,” she said. “I’ll go see if he is awake.”
He followed her to the door of the tent, apprehending something new and inexplicable in her attitude. In the music of her voice as she spoke to the sick man was the love-note of the mate. “You may come in,” she called back, and Nash, stooping, entered the small tent.
“Hello, old man, what you been doing with yourself? Hitting the high spots?”