In the meanwhile, Leland, who started as he saw the girl coming towards him, swung himself out of the saddle and stood awaiting her, with the bridle of the jaded horse in his hand. His face was worn and weary, and he stood slackly with all the springy suppleness apparently gone out of him. The grime was thick upon his coarse blue shirt and jean jacket.
"It was very good of you to wait so long," he said.
Carrie smiled in a curious fashion. "Did you expect me to sleep?"
"You were a little anxious about me, then?"
"Of course!" said the girl, softly. "Wouldn't it have been unnatural if I hadn't been?"
Leland made an abrupt gesture. "My dear, I don't want you to do the natural or the correct thing, that is, just because it is so."
"Ah," said Carrie, "who can tell exactly why they do anything? Still, I was anxious. How have you got on?"
The man laughed a trifle grimly. "Badly—we were either fooled or outgeneraled, and the whisky boys came out ahead of us. We had one horse shot, and another broke its leg in a badger-hole. Hadn't you better go in now? It'll take me some time to put up."
"I slept most of last night, and you have been out on the prairie two nights and days. I'm coming with you to the stable. I can, at least, hold a lantern."
They turned away together, Leland walking very stiffly, the girl, who felt her heart beating, close at his side, until they reached one of the uninjured buildings. It was very dark inside, and redolent with the smell of wild peppermint in the prairie hay. Leland groped for a lantern, and, when he had lighted it, hung it to a hook in the stall joist, so that its light fell upon them.