When I opened the door there stood George Taylor, a friend of Swiftwater’s of some years’ standing.
“Mrs. Beebe, I came to tell you that Swiftwater and Bera left early this morning to go to Quartz Creek on horseback. I promised Swiftwater I would help you move to his cabin and get everything ready for their return on Saturday.”
“In Heaven’s name, what is Swiftwater trying to do—kill Bera?” I exclaimed. “That ride to Quartz Creek in her condition, through the mud and mire of that trail, will kill her.”
Taylor merely looked at me and did not answer.
“Are you telling me the truth?” I demanded.
“I am,” he said.
Taylor walked away and I closed the door and went back to the baby.
“Baby,” said I, “I guess we’re left all alone for a while and you haven’t any mama but me.”
Although I afterward learned of the fact, it did me no good at that trying moment that Swiftwater had told Bera, before she would consent to leave me, that he had sent me $800 in currency by Wilson. Of course, Swiftwater did nothing of the kind, yet his story was such as to lead Bera to believe that I was well protected and comfortable.
Then I set to work to move my little belongings into Swiftwater’s cabin, there to wait for four days hoping that every minute would bring some word from Bera and Gates. There was little to eat in the cabin and the $100 that Swiftwater had given me had nearly all gone for baby’s necessities. The little fellow had kept up well and strong in spite of everything, and when I undressed him at night and bathed him and got him ready for his bed, he seemed so brave and strong and sweet that I could not, for the life of me, give way to the feeling of desolation and loss that my circumstances warranted.