They rode fast until the night fell, scanning the road ahead for a figure on horseback. When it was quite dark they halted.
“We might pass him,” suggested Follett. “He was fairly tuckered out, and he might fall off any minute.”
“Shall we go on slowly?” she asked.
“We might miss him in the dark. But the moon will be up in an hour, and then we can go at full speed. We better wait.”
“Poor little sorry father! I wish we had gone home sooner.”
“He certainly’s got more spunk in him than I gave him credit for! He had old Brigham and the rest of them plumb buffaloed for a minute. Oh, he did crack the old bull-whip over them good!”
“Poor little father! Where could he have gone at this hour?”
“I’ve got an idea he’s set out for that cross he’s talked so much about—that one up here in the Meadows.”
“I’ve seen it,—where the Indians killed those poor people years ago. But what did he mean by the crime of his Church there?”
“We’ll ask him when we find him. And I reckon we’ll find him right there if he holds out to ride that far.”