“It has cost me what every dollar I ever made could not buy me back,” he said, and the damp showed on his forehead as he checked a groan.
XXVIII
LARRY RIDES TO CEDAR
A soft wind swept the prairie, which was now bare of snow. Larry rode down the trail that led through the Cedar Bluff. He was freely sprinkled with mire, for spring had come suddenly, and the frost-bleached sod was soft with the thaw; and when he pulled up on the wooden bridge to wait until Breckenridge, who appeared among the trees, should join him, the river swirled and frothed beneath. It had lately burst its icy chains, and came roaring down, seamed by lines of foam and strewn with great fragments of half-melted snow-cake that burst against the quivering piles.
“Running strong!” said Breckenridge. “Still, the water has not risen much yet, and as I crossed the big rise I saw two of Torrance’s cow-boys apparently screwing up their courage to try the ford.”
“It might be done,” said Larry. “We have one horse at Fremont that would take me across. The snow on the ranges is not melting yet, and the ice will be tolerably firm on the deep reaches; but it’s scarcely likely that we will want to swim the Cedar now.”
“No,” said Breckenridge, with a laugh, “the bridge is good enough for me. By the way, I have a note for you.”
“A note!” said Larry, with a slight hardening of his face, for of late each communication that reached him had brought him fresh anxieties.