“Yes.” Blanche sighed. The terror of his story of that time still had power to affect her deeply.
“Well, that boy’s dead. I’ll never locate him now.”
Blanche’s gaze was searching.
“I seem to remember there was someone else there. He hadn’t a wife. It was a daughter. She fixed some food for you.”
“Which kept me alive more than a week.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Well, his farm’s about forty miles from here as the birds fly. It’s down at the mouth of the valley where Dan’s place is. Only he’s twenty-five miles higher up in the hills. Since George Marton died his girl’s alone on that farm with a choreman she calls Lightning. She’s alone—running that farm to scratch a living. Do you get all that means? A young girl, as pretty as a picture. Then think of all I owe him—her.”
“You’ve seen—her?”
Blanche’s instinct stirred.
“Yes.”