The flies were swarming, lured by the sanguinary ooze from the man’s two wounds. But their aggravation left him indifferent. His remaining purpose was too precious to permit of irritation from so small a thing. Molly was somewhere up there in the hills. He had yet miles of difficult trail to make before he reached her. He must reach her. He must reach those who were caring for her. There was that splendid horse he had borrowed. Then there was his news for the men-folk. Faint with bodily exhaustion, gasping and choking at intervals, he pondered these things.
He had ridden so far since—since—— Yes, and he had no intention of failing in the rest. He would lie where he was till his breathing got better. Then he would get up and ride on. Yes, he would get up. Of course, he would get up as soon as his breath got better. It was nothing but darn laziness, lying around with work still to be done.
It was a great thought he was going to see Molly again so soon. How long was it? Yes, it was days. And somehow he couldn’t count them. But it didn’t matter—now he was going back to her. He guessed she’d be well by now. But he wouldn’t tell her about—about—— No. It was good news, but he best not tell her. He wouldn’t unless—unless she forced him to.
But he would tell the others. Oh, yes. He would tell Jim Pryse. Jim Pryse would need to know, because he hadn’t a thing to worry about—now. He was a bully feller. A great boy. It was queer his hair was white. But it didn’t matter. A feller who could act the way he had for a brother was the boy to see Molly right.
Something broke in on the man’s disjointed thought.
He stirred uneasily. A far-off sound had startled him. It was the sound of voices that broke through his misty comprehension. He wondered dully who it could be talking. Who could be around? But he made no attempt to move. He made no attempt even to open his eyes. There seemed to be no need. And then he could think better, and hear better, with his eyes closed. Darkness seemed to help him. He wanted to think clearly. He wanted so badly to think of—Molly.
His movement again bestirred his helpless coughing, and he forgot all about the voices. Then again, with the passing of his agony, his thoughts went back to other things. The farm again came into his dazing mind, and he thought of the harvest he meant to begin cutting as soon as he had taken Molly back home.
It was a swell crop. The ear was long and heavy. And there had been no early frosts to damage it. What a bunch of money Molly would collect for it in Hartspool. Yes, it was Hartspool. A queer name for a prairie town. But it was fine now that she was free of that— She mustn’t work too hard. No. She’d been sick. Of course she’d been sick. He’d almost forgotten about it. And she was feeling bad. He wondered why she felt bad. There wasn’t need. Not now that—that——
Ah! What was that? That was his name. Lightning? Of course it was his name. Who was calling?
A moment passed while he summoned his will. Then his eyes slowly opened.