Louise, through all the working of his smart and sting, felt the quiet reserve strength of this man beside her, and, with a quick rush of longing to do her part, her woman’s part of comforting and healing, she put her hand, small, ungloved, on his rough coat sleeve.
“Is that what you meant a while ago? But you don’t mean it, do you? It is bitter and you do not mean it. Tell me that you do not mean it, Mr. Gordon, please,” she said, impulsively.
Smothering a wild impulse to keep the hand where it had lain such a brief, palpitating while, Gordon remained silent. God only knows what human longing he crushed down, what intense discouragement, what sick desire to lay down his thankless task and flee to the uttermost parts of the world to be away from the crying need he yet could not still. Then he answered simply, “I did not mean it, Miss Dale.”
And then there did not seem to be anything to say between them for a long while. The half-breed had settled down with stolid indifference. People had resumed their newspapers and magazines and day dreams after the fleeting excitement. It was very warm. Louise tried to create a little breeze by flicking her somewhat begrimed handkerchief in front of her face. Gordon took a newspaper from his pocket, folded it and fanned her gently. He was not used to the little graces of life, perhaps, but he did this well. An honest man and a kindly never goes far wrong in any direction.
“You must not think, Miss Dale,” he said, seriously, “that it is all bad up here. I am only selfish. I have been harping on my own little corner of wickedness all the while. It is a good land. It will be better before long.”
“When?” asked Louise.
“When we convict Jesse Black and when our Indian neighbors get over their mania for divorce,” he answered, laughing softly.
Louise laughed merrily and so the journey ended as it had begun, with a laugh and a jest.
In the Judge’s runabout, Louise held out her hand.
“I’m almost homesick,” she cried, smiling.