Why had she not killed herself? Why was she living on? Why was she crouched here now upon her bed, when the Ghost River was at hand? True, it was frozen over, but there were great water holes, where the cattle came to drink, and into one of these she might throw herself as into a deep well. Oblivion would come then. Her sick mind would no longer conjure up the loathsome vision of Bull Langdon, and her ears would be deaf to the taunting, beating challenge of the wind, calling to her with its roaring voice to come forth and fight hand to hand with the fates that had crushed her.
"I got to go out!" she moaned. "I got to go out! I can't live no longer."
She put her foot over the side of the bed, and with her head uplifted she listened to what her disordered mind fancied was a voice out of the river, calling to her above the raging of the wind. And as she sat in the dark room, above the raving of the wind, she heard indeed a call—a living voice. Instantly she drew up tensely, holding her breath the more clearly to catch the faint cry.
"Nettie! Nettie!"
It was her mistress. She was out of bed, fumbling for the matches.
The Bar Q was equipped with electricity, but the wires were not connected with the hired girl's room. It was a pitch-dark night. Frightened as she was of the darkness and the storm, the cry of her well-loved mistress awoke all the defensive bravery of her nature, and she called aloud in reply, feeling along the walls, groping her way to the door.
"I'm coming, Mrs. Langdon! I'm coming! I'm coming!"
In the hall she found the electric button, and hurried across to Mrs. Langdon's room. She found the cattleman's wife propped high up on her pillow, breathing with the difficulty of an asthmatic. The window was wide open, and the shades flapped angrily and tore at the rollers. The face on the bed smiled up wanly at Nettie in the reflected light from the hall.
"Oh, Mrs. Langdon, did you call me? Do you want something?"