“It was my affair, Jim, you ought not to have done it,” said Langford, brokenly.
“It’s all right—Boss—don’t you worry—I saw you—in the hall that night. You are—the Boss. Tell Mary so. Tell her I was—glad—to go—so you could go to her—and it would be—all right. She—loves you—Boss—you needn’t be afraid.”
“Jim, I cannot bear it; I must go in your stead.”
“To Mary—yes.” His voice sank lower and lower. An added paleness stole over his face, but his eyes looked into Langford’s serenely, almost happily.
“Go—to Mary in my stead—Boss,” he whispered. “Tell her Jim gave his Boss—to her—when he had to go—tell her he was glad to go—I used to think it was ‘Mouse-hair’—I am glad it is—Mary—tell her good-bye—tell her the Three Bars wouldn’t be the same to Jim with a woman in it anyway—tell her—”
And with a sigh Jim died.
[CHAPTER XXIII—THE PARTY AT THE LAZY S]
Mary stared thoughtfully into the mirror. It was a better one than the sliver into which she had looked more than a year before, when Paul Langford came riding over the plains to the Lazy S. A better house had risen from the ashes of the homestead laid waste by the cattle rustlers. Affairs were well with George Williston now that the hand of no man was against him. He prospered.
Louise stepped to the door.
“I am in despair, Mary,” she said, whimsically. “Mrs. White has ordered me out of the kitchen. What do you think of that?”