Mrs. White and her husband, kindly souls both, lifted the girl as gently as might be from the bed to the rudely constructed invalid’s chair by the sitting-room window. Then they had left her—the woman to putter around her kitchen, the man to make good his appointment. But the exertion had been too much for Mary. She had counted on strength that she did not possess. Where had she lost it all? she wondered, lacking comprehension of her exceeding weakness. To be sure, her arm alternately ached and smarted, but one’s arm was really such a small part of one, and she had been so strong—always. She tried to shake off the faintness creeping over her. It was effort thrown away. She lay back on her pillow, very white and worn, her pretty hair tangled and loosened from its coils.
Paul came. He was dusty and travel-stained. He had been almost continuously in his saddle since near midnight of the night before. He was here, big, strong, and worthy. Mary did not cry, but she remembered how she had wanted to a few hours ago and she wondered that she could not now. Strangely enough, it was Paul who wanted to cry now—but he didn’t. He only swallowed hard and held her poor hand with all gentleness, afraid to let go lest he also let go his mastery over the almost insurmountable lump in his throat.
“I tried to come sooner,” he said, huskily, at last, releasing her hand and standing before her. “But I’ve been riding all over—for men, you know,—and I had a talk with Gordon, too. It took time. He is coming out to see you this afternoon. He is coming with Doc. Don’t you think you had better go back to bed now? You are so—so white. Let me carry you back to bed before I go.”
“Are you going, too?” asked Mary, looking at him with wide eyes of gratitude.
“Surely,” he responded, quickly. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I—I—didn’t know. I thought—there were a lot going—there would be enough without you. But—I am glad. If you go, it will be all right. You will find him if any one can.”
“Won’t you let me carry you back to bed till Doc comes?” said Langford, brokenly.
“I could not bear it in bed,” she said, clearly. Her brown eyes were beginning to shine with fever, and red spots had broken out in her pale cheeks. “If you make me go, I shall die. I hear it all the time when I am lying down—galloping, galloping, galloping. They never stop. They always begin all over again.”
“What galloping, little girl?” asked Langford, soothingly. He saw she was becoming delirious. If Doc and Dick would only come before he had to go. But they were not coming until after dinner. He gazed down the dusty road. They would wait for him, the others. He was their leader by the natural-born right of push and energy, as well as by his having been the sole participant, with his own cowboys, in the last night’s tragedy. But would he do well to keep them waiting? They had already delayed too long. And yet how could he leave Williston’s little girl like this—even to find Williston?
“They are carrying my father away,” she said, with startling distinctness. “Don’t you hear them? If you would listen, you could hear them. Do listen! They are getting faint now—you can hardly hear them. They are fainter—fainter—fainter—”