She, on her part, was frightened for him, and as she thought of the long ride still before them she wrung her hands. “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” she moaned.
Instantly smitten into shame, into manlier mood, he said: “Don’t worry about me, please don’t. I can ride. I’m feeling better. You must not weaken. Please forgive my selfish complaints. I’m done! You’ll never hear it again. Come, let us go on. I can ride.”
“If we can reach Miller’s ranch—”
“I can ride to your ranch,” he declared, and rose with such new-found resolution that she stared at him in wonder.
He was able to smile. “I’ve had my little crying spell. I’ve relieved my heart of its load. I didn’t mean to agonize you. It was only a slump.” He put his hand to his head. “I must be a comical figure. Wonder what that cowboy thought of me?”
His sudden reversal to cheer was a little alarming to her, but at length she perceived that he had in truth mastered his depression, and bringing up the horses she saddled them, and helped him to mount. “If you get tired or feel worse, tell me, and we’ll go into camp,” she urged as they were about to start.
“You keep going till I give the sign,” he replied; and his voice was so firm and clear that her own sunny smile came back. “I don’t know what to make of you,” she said. “I reckon you must be a poet.”