“You plan well without knowing my wishes.”
“I knew well what your wishes are. It is to see a horse I have found.”
Her voice betrayed her delight, as she cried, “Oh, good!”
“He is a beauty,” Chris said.
But her face had suddenly gone grave, and apprehension brooded in her eyes.
“He’s called Comanche,” Chris went on. “A beauty, a regular beauty, the perfect type of the Californian cow-pony. And his lines—why, what’s the matter?”
“Don’t let us ride any more,” Lute said, “at least for a while. Really, I think I am a tiny bit tired of it, too.”
He was looking at her in astonishment, and she was bravely meeting his eyes.
“I see hearses and flowers for you,” he began, “and a funeral oration; I see the end of the world, and the stars falling out of the sky, and the heavens rolling up as a scroll; I see the living and the dead gathered together for the final judgement, the sheep and the goats, the lambs and the rams and all the rest of it, the white-robed saints, the sound of golden harps, and the lost souls howling as they fall into the Pit—all this I see on the day that you, Lute Story, no longer care to ride a horse. A horse, Lute! a horse!”
“For a while, at least,” she pleaded.