“Almighty God,” prayed the old man—“me an' Cap'n Tom an' Jack Bracken here, we thank You for bein' so much kinder to us than we deserves. One of us, lost to his friends, is brought back home; one of us, lost in wickedness but yestiddy, is redeemed to-day; an' me that doubted You only yestiddy, to me You have fotcht Cap'n Tom back, a reproach for my doubts an' my disbelief, lame in his head, it is true, but You've fotcht him back where I can keer for him an' nuss him. An' I hope You'll see fit, Almighty God, You who made the worl' an' holds it in the hollow of Yo' han', You, who raised up the dead Christ, to give po' Cap'n Tom back his reason, that he may fulfill the things in life ordained by You that he should fulfill since the beginning of things.
“An' hold Jack Bracken to the mark, Almighty God,—let him toe the line an' shoot, hereafter, only for good. An' guide me, for I need it—me that in spite of all You've done for me, doubted You but yestiddy. Amen.”
It was a simple, homely prayer, but it comforted even Captain Tom, and when Jack Bracken put him to bed that night, even the outlaw felt that the morning of a new era would awaken them.
CHAPTER X
THE SWAN-SONG OF THE CREPE-MYRTLE
It was twilight when Mrs. Westmore heard the clatter of horses' hoofs up the gravelled roadway, and two riders cantered up.
Richard Travis sat his saddle horse in the slightly stooping way of the old fox-hunter—not the most graceful seat, but the most natural and comfortable for hard riding. Alice galloped ahead—her fine square shoulders and delicate but graceful bust silhouetted against the western sky in the fading light.