“I must be going,” she said awkwardly. Then, realising the abruptness of her manner: “I’ve stopped around longer than I reckoned.”
“Are you a long piece up in the hills, ma’am?” Lightning asked uneasily. He was thinking of the possible needs of Molly, and of his own helplessness.
“Longer than makes it easy riding down here often.” Blanche shook her head. “It’s rough territory,” she went on, “and there’s no trail. I couldn’t tell you so you’d understand it right. No. I’ll come along, though, just when I can. I don’t know. That poor child’s sick—sick.”
The sympathy deepened in her eyes.
“Yes, it’s her mind, Lightning. She’s troubled so she’s right down sick. And I don’t know what you’re to do. You must watch her, sure. Oh, yes, you must watch her. And—and if she gets worse, you’ll need to get right after a doctor, if you can get one in Hartspool. You see, she won’t say a thing. I can’t quite——”
“No?”
Lightning’s interrogation came curiously. There was something suggestive in it, something that caught and held the girl, and sent a wave of panic through her heart.
“No,” she repeated, a little mechanically.
Silence fell between them. The intentness of their regard was for the thought that was passing in each mind. Maybe even, ill-matched as they were, yet so bonded in the object of their sympathy, there was something of thought-transference passing between them. At any rate, there was no spoken word that could have inspired the sharp-drawn breath which accompanied the light of panic that had suddenly appeared in Blanche’s eyes. She seemed about to speak, but no sound came. Instead, her lips closed tightly, sealing themselves over the thing that, in an unguarded moment, was almost escaping her.
She lifted her reins and turned her horse. And as the creature moved Lightning’s voice came low and almost pleading.