Lightning had not moved from the verandah. He was sitting on the edge of it. He had been sitting hunched there all the morning, and now it was nearing noon.
He had been steadily gazing out upon this new world of busy life without a shadow of the interest which Blanche had prophesied for him. It almost seemed as if nothing could ever again interest him in his surroundings. He saw the coming and going of the men, whom he knew to be fugitives from the law, who did the daily work of the ranch. He saw the droves of cattle being dealt with and handled, however inadequately, without a single uncomplimentary mental reservation. He was content to remain where he was, with the thoughts that were his.
The doctor had passed on down to the bunk-house, to employ himself again in the new life he had adopted. He had given his verdict; he had told of the reality of Molly’s calamity; he had exercised all his undoubted professional skill on her behalf, and spread the glad news of a coming quick bodily recovery. Lightning had no further interest in him.
Jim’s cordiality was a thing that had left him cold. Jim had told him that the whole valley, his house, everything that was his, was at his entire disposal. Lightning had thanked him briefly and continued to chew his tobacco in stony silence.
Larry, too. He had been no less solicitous of the old man’s welfare. He had referred him to Despard for anything and everything for his convenience and comfort. The old man had watched both men depart. But he—he had remained precisely where they had left him, a sort of grim, silent sentry, standing guard over the helpless girl who was the idol of his half-savage heart.
But Lightning’s vigil meant more than that. Whatever the old man’s shortcomings, whatever his failings, lack of decision and the energetic prosecution of purpose were by no means amongst them. As he sat there at the edge of the verandah, with a sub-tropical sun pouring down its merciless rays upon his hard old head, never was his decision more irrevocable, never was his energy more ardently concentrated.
He was waiting for one thing—for one thing only. Sooner or later he felt certain that Blanche would appear. And it was she for whom he was waiting.
The end of his waiting came with the approach of noon. The rustle of a woman’s skirts somewhere within the French window behind him warned him of Blanche’s coming. Instantly his whole attitude underwent a transformation. He glanced swiftly down in the direction of the ranch buildings. There was no sign of the return of the men-folk to the house. So he straightened his body and stood up. And the face, with its tatter of whisker, that turned to greet Blanche was smiling!
“I sure take it she’s feelin’ good, ma’am,” he nodded. “If it wa’an’t that way I don’t guess you’d be gettin’ around to breathe the swell air of midday.”
There was no responsive smile in Blanche. Her whole expression was grave. There was sadness in the down-drooping of the mouth that was accustomed to respond so readily to her smile.