“He went up north to help somebody out of the mud and water, I suppose,” Dennie replied. “He is the kindest neighbor, and he has been trying to—to keep straight. He told me when he left that this night's work was to be a work of redemption for him. He may get stronger some time.”
In his heart Burgess knew better. He had no faith in the old man's will power, and the burden of a hidden crime he knew would but increase its weight with time, and drag Bond down at last. But Dennie need not suffer now.
“Will you go with me down to the old Corral tomorrow afternoon, Dennie? I want some plants that grow there. I'm studying nature along with Greek,” he said, smiling.
“Of course, if it is fair,” Dennie replied, the pretty color blooming deeper in her cheeks.
“Oh, we go fair or foul. You remember we fought it out coming home from there once.”
Meanwhile Bond Saxon was hurrying north on his work of redemption. At the bend in the river he found Tom Gresh sitting on the flat stone slab. The light was gleaming through the shrubbery of the little cottage, and the homey sounds of evening and the twitter of late-coming birds were in the air.
“What are you here for, Gresh?” Bond asked, hoarsely. “I thought you had left for good.”
The villainous-looking outlaw drew a flask from his pocket.
“Have a drink, Saxon. Take the whole bottle,” and he thrust it into the old man's hands.
Bond wavered a moment, then flung it far into the foamy floods of the Walnut.