“I know what you mean, but Dan is changed; he isn't the same man he used to be.”
“Yes?” queried Buck, without conviction.
“You'll have to see him to believe; Buck, he doesn't even whistle any more.”
“What?”
“Only goes about singing, now.”
The two men exchanged glances of such astonishment that Kate could not help but notice and flush a little.
“Well,” murmured Buck, “Bart doesn't seem to have changed much from the old days.”
She laughed slowly, letting her mind run back through such happiness as they could not understand and when she looked up she seemed to debate whether or not it would be worth while to let them in on the delightful secret. The moment she dwelt on the burning logs they gazed at her and then to each other with utter amazement as if they sat in the same room with the dead come to life. No care of motherhood had marked her face, but on the white, even forehead was a sign of peace; and drifting over her hands and on the white apron across her lap the firelight pooled dim gold, the wealth of contentment.
“If you'd been here today you would have seen how changed he is. We had a man with us whom Dan had taken while he was running from a posse, wounded, and kept him here until he was well, and—”
“That's Dan,” murmured Lee Haines. “He's gold all through when a man's in trouble.”