“Where is he?” he asked coldly. “I can hear you breathing. Is he dead?”
Diane sprang up and bent over her patient. “No,” she said, half fearing that her father’s inquiry was prophetic. “He is unconscious from loss of blood. Arizona——”
“Tchah! Arizona!—I want to talk to you. Here, give me your hand and lead me to the bedside. I will sit here. This place is unfamiliar.”
Diane did as she was bid. She was pale. A strained look was in her soft brown eyes, but there was determination in the set of her lips.
“What is the matter with you, girl?” her father asked. The softness of his speech in no way disguised the iciness of his manner. “You’re shaking.”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied pointedly.
“Ah, thinking of him.” His hand reached out until it rested on one of Tresler’s legs. His remark seemed to require no answer, and a silence fell while Diane watched the eyes so steadily directed upon the sick man. Presently he went on. “These men have done well. They have saved the cattle. Arizona mentioned the sheriff. I don’t know much about it yet, but it seems to me this boy must have contrived their assistance. Smart work, if he did so.”
“Yes, father, and brave,” added the girl in a low tone.
His words had raised hope within her. But with his next he dashed it.