“Good!” Iredale paused thoughtfully. “Chintz,” he went on a moment later, “we’ve finished with opium. We retire into private life from now out––you and I. We are going to leave Owl Hoot. How does that suit you?”
The little man cheerfully nodded, and twisted his face into a squinting grimace intended for a pleasant smile. Then his eyebrows went up inquiringly. Iredale took his meaning at once.
“I don’t know where we are going as yet. But you’ll go with me. I want you to remain my ‘head man.’”
Chintz nodded. There could be no doubt from his expression that he was devoted to his master.
“Right. Send my horse round at once. I am going to Loon Dyke, and shall be back for supper.”
The man departed, and the rancher prepared for his ride.
When George Iredale set out for Loon Dyke the valley was shrouded in the gloom of coming storm. But he knew the peculiarities of the climate too well to be alarmed. The storm, he judged, would not break until nearly sundown, and then it would only be short and sharp. In the meantime he would have reached the farm. There was a curious, unconscious rapidity in his way of settling up his affairs. It was as though some strange power were urging him to haste. This may have been the result of the man’s character, for he was of a strikingly vigorous nature. He had put the machinery in motion, and now he primed it with the oil of eager desire to see the work swiftly carried out.
As his horse galloped over the prairie––he took the direct route of the crow’s flight––his thoughts centred upon the object of his visit. He saw nothing of the pleasant fields and pastures through which his journey took him. The threat of coming storm was nothing to him. For all heed he paid to it the sky might have been of a tropical blue. The ruffling prairie chicken rose lazily in their coveys, with their crops well filled with the gleanings of the harvested wheat fields, but he scarcely even saw them. All he saw was the sweet, dark face of the girl to whom he intended to put the question which women most love to hear; whether it be put by the man of their choice or by some one for whom they care not a cent. He had always longed for this day to come, but, until now, had never seen how such could ever dawn for him. It had been a great wrench to sever himself from the past, but his decision once taken his heart was filled with thankfulness, and never had he felt so free from care as now. 209 He realized all that a lover may realize of his own unworthiness, but he allowed himself no extravagances of thought in this direction. Prudence was a good woman, he knew, and he intended, if Fate so willed, to devote the rest of his life to her happiness. As he drew near to his destination his heart beat a shade faster, and doubts began to assail him. He found himself speculating upon his chances of success. He believed that the daughter of Hephzibah Malling regarded him with favour, but nothing had gone before to give him any clue to her maiden feelings. He wondered doubtfully, and, in proportion, his nervousness increased.
Out upon the trail, at a distance, he saw a horseman riding away from the farm; he did not even trouble about the rider’s identity. The strong, reckless nature, concealed beneath his quiet exterior, urged him on to learn his fate. Nothing mattered to him now but his sentence as pronounced by the child of the prairie whose love he sought.