“Don’t say a thing, Molly, gal,” he cried. “I’ll fix all that. You get your pinto an’ ride over to-morrow mornin’. Guess you’ll tickle that boy to death comin’ along. An’, say, quit this foolishness with your food, gal. You got me so worried I don’t feel I could swaller a mouthful right. An’ ther’s Jane an’ Pete worried about it, too,” he grinned. “That’s it,” he cried, as Molly made a serious attempt to obey him. “You don’t know the thing you’re missin’ in this darn hash.”
That night had been the one bright spot in the whole of the three weeks. But it was only the forerunner of darker days. Molly went off the next morning. She went off in spirits she had not displayed for a week. She returned in less than three hours. It was her return that brought Lightning’s structure of hope crashing about his unfortunate ears.
He encountered her at the barn as she rode up. Her pinto was blowing, as though the tireless creature had been flogged every mile of the journey home. But all hope had fled at sight of the distracted girl, and his heart sank to zero.
“Wal?”
Lightning’s voice had never rasped so harshly.
But there was no reply. It is doubtful even if Molly heard. Her mare propped to a standstill and she leapt from the saddle. The next moment she was gone. She had fled to the house, leaving the pinto to its own devices.
Since that time another two weeks had passed—two weeks of worry which the old man had hardly known how to endure.
After Molly’s return he had contemplated having the whole thing out with her at the first opportunity. But the girl settled the matter herself that very night. She met him in the doorway as he went up to the house for his supper.
He was astonished and further alarmed at the sight of her waiting for him. Her eyes contained not a sign of that which had filled them on her return at midday. They were calm—quite calm—like the eyes of the dead father he so well remembered. But they had a coldness in them that utterly forbade the intrusion he had contemplated.
As he came to the door the girl spoke.