Something in his tone brought her hurrying to the door.
The riders were now galloping madly. One of them, far in advance of the other, leaned forward on his horse's neck, and waved and waved, riding as if the horse could not carry him fast enough.
With a gasping breath Hannah Peniman clutched her husband's hand. Neither spoke. Both ashen pale, silent, tense, they strained forward, their eyes set on the riders galloping toward them.
Suddenly from Hannah Peniman's lips came a hoarse, "Merciful God!"
At the same moment Sam leaped through the door and began racing toward the riders with Paul at his heels, shouting frantically, "Joe, Joe, Joe!"
The riders were close now, and the foremost, with tears streaming down his pale cheeks, was lashing the little Indian pony with one hand, while with the other he waved and waved his hat about his head, shouting, "Home, home, home!"
None of them ever knew who reached him first, how or when or where he got off his horse, or how they all got back to the sod house, laughing and crying and clinging to one another, and saying over and over again as if they would never tire, "Joe's home, Joe's alive, Joe's home again!"
Down at the spring Lige had heard nothing of the excitement. He had splashed water over his face and eyes to remove the traces of tears, and close by the running water had sat down to get control of himself before he should go back to his mother and the house. As he came slowly up the incline carrying the pail he saw a crowd about the door. For an instant he stood motionless, then dropped his pail and ran swiftly toward the house.
Was it—-could it be—news of—of Joe?
When he was nearly to the house one of the children leaping and capering about stepped aside, and he saw a tall, slender boyish figure clasped in his mother's arms. Lige, tall young pioneer that he was, almost fainted. When the world righted itself he gave a hoarse, hysterical shout and dashing forward precipitated himself into Joe's arms.